The Gem Foretold (Find me on AO3! Same Name, Same Author)
by VanillaSkyce
Summary: A traditional High Fantasy epic following our lovable, eponymous protagonist Steven Quartz Universe and his motley crew as they journey through the Kingdoms of the West to reclaim the lost Grey Ward, the only gem artefact capable of stopping the Mad God Black Diamond and her fanatical followers from once again waging war for the dominion of the world.
1. Foreword and Author's Note

Preface : Foreword and Author's Note

 **[A/ N: Welcome, welcome and thank you for choosing to join me on this journey. Now you may be expecting a certain level of magic, mystery and plot from a High Fantasy AU, and you'd be absolutely right!**

 **I've seen so many College AUs lately, so I thought I'd try my hand at something different involving all of the SU characters and some OCs.**

 **As you take this journey with me, I'd like you to remember that YOU, YES YOU, THE READER, have a say in how I can shape this story moving forward.**

 **This tale is an epic quest, and as you know, quests can have unexpected twists, subplots, details and unforeseen developments that help to keep it interesting.**

 **Therefore, as I develop this grand tale, please leave your comments and your personal feedback on what YOU think of these developments and what YOU would like to see happen next!**

 **Now, without further ado, let's dive into the lore!]**

P.S. : If you have an idea that another Fantasy Fiction Tale has given you, let me know! I'll try and see whether I can weave it into a meaningful subplot, which will ultimately count towards the final showdown between Steven and Black Diamond


	2. Prologue I : The War of the Diamonds

_The following excerpt was taken from the original copy of the Book of the Sangrians. All ownership rights belong to the Curator of the Grand Sangrian Archive_ s.

When this world was yet nascent, seven celestials, the Great Diamond Authority, came into being, created by the Universe itself. They dwelt in harmony with all creation, their own gemkind, and later humankind which spontaneously erupted into being from the conditions of the world they created for their gems.

Pink, youngest of the Diamonds, was beloved by the Sangrians. She abode with them and cherished them, and they prospered under her care. So too did the other Diamonds take a people under their watchful light, and cherish them in turn.

Pink's oldest sister, however, Grey Diamond, had taken no people under her care. She dwelt apart from Men and Gems alike, until the day that an orphan waif sought her out. Grey Diamond accepted the child as her disciple, and called him Gregarion. It was from Grey that Gregarion learned the secrets of Diamond Magic and became a sorcerer. In the years that followed, kindred souls sought out the solitary Diamond in the same way. They joined in brotherhood to learn at the feet of Grey Diamond, and time did not touch them.

It came to be that Grey Diamond, pensive by nature, began to ponder upon the origins of consciousness itself, and so she broke off a natural vein of rose quartz, superheated it, and fashioned it into the shape of an orb, no larger than the heart of a child, and she turned the gem in her hand over and over again, until it became sentient. The power of the living jewel, named The Grey Ward henceforth by Men, was immense in its own right, and Grey worked wonders with it.

Of all the Diamonds, White Diamond was the most radiant, and her beauty was both revered and feared by all who saw her. Hers was a people called the Alabastians. They sacrificed before her, calling her the Queen of Queens, and White found the smell of sacrifice and words of adulation sweet. The day came, however, when she heard word of The Grey Ward, and from that moment she knew no peace.

Finally, in a dissembling guise, she came to Grey Diamond.

"Dear sister," she began, "It is not fitting that you should absent yourself from our company and counsel. Put aside this petty pursuit which has cast your mind away from our fellowship."

Grey Diamond was not so easily taken by her words, and saw the truth in her intention. Gently, she rebuked her sister.

"Why do you desire lordship and dominion so fiercely, White? Is not Alabastia enough for you? Do not, in your hubris, my sister, seek to possess the Ward, lest it destroy you."

Like piercing blows, Grey's truthful words filled White's heart with shame. Raising her hand, she smote her sister, took the jewel, and fled.

The other Diamonds had pleaded White, in gentle tones, to return the Ward, but she refused. Their hands forced, the other races of Gem and Man rose up against the hosts of Alabastia and made war upon them. The wars of Gems and Men raged across the land until, near the high peaks of Ignia, White Diamond raised the artefact and forced it to join its will with hers to rend the earth asunder. Mountains crumbled and cracked, and the sea rushed in where new space was created. Only with the timely intervention of Pink and Grey Diamond was the cataclysm mitigated, and the sea's advance halted. The various races and peoples of the world, however, were irreversibly separated by the event, and with them, so too the Diamonds.

When White raised the living Ward against the Earth, its mother, it awoke, and began to glower with holy light. The face of White Diamond was seared by its intensity, too radiant and bright to behold. In pain, she cast down the mountains. In anguish, she cracked open the earth. In agony, she let in the sea. In an instant, her left hand which beheld the Ward was snuffed of all light. The left side of her face became corrupted and malformed, with erratic patterns of black crystal taking root all over her form. Her left eye shrivelled and died in its socket, and became infected with crystal rot. With a great cry, she cast herself away, hoping not to behold her twisted reflection upon the sea.

When next she revealed herself before her people, her right side was still fair, but her left was scarred and deformed hideously by the searing of the Grey Ward. In endless pain, she led her people far into the East, where they built a great city on the plateaus of Mania, which they called Noxu-Isyak, meaning the Black City, for White now hid her maiming in darkness. The Alabastians raised an ivory tower for their Diamond and placed the Ward in an ivory cask at the topmost chamber. Often stood White before the cask, then fled, weeping, fearing the Ward's retribution upon her a second time.

The centuries rolled by, and White was rechristened as the Black Diamond, both for deed and appearance, which the world came to know at both the moment of her maiming, and by legend for the generations to come.


	3. Prologue II : Gregarion the Sorcerer

In the dark days since the Cataclysm, Pink Diamond ferried her people north, toward the Ice Lands. Of all the world's peoples, the Sangrians were the hardiest and the most resilient, and in their hearts burned an unquenchable hatred for the Alabastians. With fury unrelenting they ranged far north, braving the cold and frost for a way to reach their ancient enemies.

And so it would be ever thus, until the time where Wy-Ate Broad-shoulders, the great king of the Sangrians, traveled to the Grey Vale in search of Gregarion the Sorcerer.

"The North-East Passage has been found." He said. "There is no better time than now to discover the way to the Black City and regain the Ward from the One-Eyed God."

Gregarion pondered upon this development with much thought. His wife, Rosalina, was heavy with child, and he was reluctant to leave her. Wy-Ate was insistent, however, and soon pragmatism overruled sentimentality. Together with Wy-Ate's children, Wy-Ix Strong Arm, Anya Fleetfoot and Hrodheid Iron-Grip, they made the journey north through the Lands of Forever Winter.

Blistering cold winds gripped the northlands, and the moors glistened beneath the stars with frost and steely gray ice. To make the journey easier, Gregarion took the form of a great silver wolf to scout the path ahead. On silent paws, he slunk through the snow-covered forests where the trees lay cracked and shattered from the sundering cold. Frost took to his fur like kindling to a wildfire, and ever after the hair and beard of Gregarion the Sorcerer became silver.

Through snow and mist, they crossed into the highlands of Mania and came at last to Noxu-Isyak. Finding secret passage into the city, Gregarion the Sorcerer led them to the foot of the ivory tower. Silently they crept up the decaying stairs, which had known no step for twenty centuries. Fearfully they bypassed the chamber where Black Diamond tossed through pain-haunted slumber, her hideously maimed face hidden behind an ivory mask. Stealthily they crept past the sleeping god in smouldering darkness and came at last to the chamber where lay the ivory cask in which rested the living Ward.

Wy-Ate motioned for Gregarion to take the Ward, but he refused.

"I may not touch it," motioned Gregarion, "lest it corrupt me entirely. Once it welcomed the touch of both Man and Gem, but the Dreaded One's misuse of it against its mother has hardened its will against us entirely. It shall not be used so again. It reads our souls and only one without ill intent, one with no thoughts of power or possession over it, one who is pure enough to take and convey it in peril of his life, may touch it."

"Then we are surely lost!" said Wy-Ate, saddened, "For no man is born without such intention in his soul."

Or so he thought. For in an instant, an unthinking Hrodheid, with no thought other than the safety of his people and the world in mind, opened the cask and bore forth the Ward.

It glowered fiercely in recognition of Hrodheid, first an angry, startled red, then down to a subtle, cool blue. It had accepted Hrodheid as its bearer.

"So be it, Ate. " Gregarion intoned. "Your youngest son is pure. It shall be his doom and the doom of all who follow him to protect the Ward and bear it forth.". And Gregarion sighed, knowing full well the burden he had placed upon Hrodheid.

"Then his siblings and I will sustain him," replied Wy-Ate, grimly, "for as long as this doom is upon him."

And so Hrodheid muffled the Ward beneath his cloak and they fled the wasteland in the night.

Soon after, Black Diamond rose and went as always into the Chamber of the Ward. But the cask stood open, and the Ward was gone. Terrible was the wrath of Black Diamond. She swelled into immensity, and in one fell swoop, obliterated the ivory tower that was her abode. And so the tower fell. To the Alabastians she cried out in rage :

"Because you have become indolent and unwatchful and have let a thief steal that for which I paid so dear, I will break your city and drive you forth. Alabastia shall wander the earth until that which is mine, The Corrupted Ward, is returned to me!"

Then she cast down the Black City in ruins and drove the hosts of Alabastia into the wilderness. The Black City was no more.

Three leagues to the north, Gregarion heard the wailing from the city and knew that the Dread God had awakened. "Now will she come after us," he said, "and only the power of the Ward can save us. When the hosts are upon us, Iron-grip, take the Ward and hold it so they may see it."

The hosts of Alabastia came, with Black Diamond herself in the forefront, but Hrodheid held forth the Ward so that the maimed God and her hosts might behold it. The Ward knew its enemy. Its hatred flamed anew, and the sky became alight with its fury. Black Diamond cried out and turned away. The front ranks of the Alabastian hosts were consumed by light, and the rest fled in terror.

Thus Gregarion and his companions escaped from Mania and passed again through the marches of the north, bearing the The Grey Ward once more into the Kingdoms of the West.

Now the Gods, knowing all that had passed, held council, and Grey Diamond advised them, "If we raise war again upon our sister White Diamond, our strife will destroy the world. Thus we must absent ourselves from the world so that our sister may not find us. No longer in flesh, but in spirit only may we remain to guide and protect our people. For the world's sake it must be so. In the day that we war again, the world will be unmade."

The Gods wept that they must depart. But Yellow Diamond, God of the Flaxen, asked, "In our absence, shall not White have dominion?"

"Not so," Grey replied. "So long as the Ward remains with the line of Hrodheid Iron-grip, White shall not prevail."

So it was that the Diamonds departed, and only Black Diamond remained. But the knowledge that the Ward in the hand of Hrodheid denied her dominion cankered her soul.

Then Gregarion spoke with Wy-Ate and his progeny. "Here we must part, to guard the Ward and to prepare against the coming of the Black One. Let each turn aside as I have instructed and make preparations."

"We will, Gregarion," vowed Wy-Ate Broad-shoulders. "From this day, Sangria is no more, but the Sangrians will deny dominion to Black Diamond as long as one Sangrian remains."

Gregarion raised his face. "Hear me, O One-eye," he cried. "The living Ward is secure against ye, and you shall not prevail against it. In the day that you come against us, I shall raise war against ye. I will maintain watch upon you by day and by night and will abide against your coming, even to the end of days."

In the wastelands of Mania, the Dread God heard the voice of Gregarion and smote about herself in fury, for she knew that the living Ward was forever beyond her reach.

Then Wy-Ate embraced his sons and turned away, to see them no more. Ix went north and dwelt in the lands drained by River Marin. He built a city at Wal'kofte and called his lands Q'zarnia. And he and his descendants stood athwart the northern marches and denied them to the enemy. Anya went south with her people and found horses on the broad plains drained by the Grey River. The horses they tamed and learned to ride, and for the first time in history, mounted warriors appeared. Their country they called Aíne, and they became nomads, following their herds. Wy-Ate returned sadly to Van Sangria and renamed his kingdom Wy-Ate, for now he was alone and without heirs. Grimly he built tall ships of war to patrol the seas and deny them to the enemy.

Upon the bearer of the Ward, however, fell the burden of the longest journey. Taking his people, Hrodheid went to the west coast of Delmarvia. There he built ships, and he and his people crossed to the Shivering Isles. They burned their ships and built a fortress and a walled city around it. The city they called Hródenheim and the fortress the Hall of the Hroden King. Then Pink, God of the Sangrians, caused two stars to fall from the sky. Hrodheid took up the stars and forged a blade from one and a hilt from the other, setting the Ward upon it as a pommel-stone. So large was the sword that none but Hrodheid could wield it. In the wasteland of Mania, Black felt in her soul the forging of the sword and she tasted fear for the first time.

The sword was set against the black rock that stood at the back of Hrodheid's throne, with the Ward at the highest point, and the sword joined to the rock so that none but Hrodheid could remove it. The Ward burned with cold fire when Hrodheid sat upon the throne. And when he took down his sword and raised it, it became a great tongue of cold fire.

The greatest wonder of all was the marking of Hrodheid's heir. In each generation, one child in the line of Hrod bore upon the palm of his right hand the mark of the Ward. The child so marked was taken to the throne chamber, and his hand was placed upon the Ward, so that it might know him. With each infant touch, the Ward waxed in brilliance, and the bond between the living Ward and the line of Hrod became stronger with each joining.

After Gregarion had parted from his companions, he hastened to the Grey Vale. But there he found that Rosalina, his wife, had borne twin daughters and then had died. In sorrow he named the elder Polina. Her hair was dark as the raven's wing. In the fashion of sorcerers, he stretched forth his hand to lay it upon her brow, and a single lock at her forehead turned frost-white at his touch. Then he was troubled, for the white lock was the mark of the sorcerers, and Polina was the first female child to be so marked.

His second daughter, fair-skinned and strangely pink-haired, was unmarked. He called her Rosalie, and he and her dark-haired sister loved her beyond all else and contended with each other for her affection.

Now when Polina and Rosalie had reached their sixteenth year, the Spirit of Grey Diamond came to Gregarion in a dream, saying, "My beloved disciple, I would join your line with the line of the guardian of the Ward. Choose, therefore, which of your daughters you would give to the Hroden King to be his wife and the mother of his line, for in that line lies the hope of the world, against which the dark power of White may not prevail."

In the deep silence of his soul, Gregarion was tempted to choose Polina. But, knowing the burden which lay upon the Hroden King, he sent Rosalie instead, and wept when she was gone. Polina wept also, long and bitterly, knowing that her sister must fade and die. In time, however, they comforted each other and came at last to know each other.

They joined their powers to keep watch over Black Diamond. And some men say that they abide still, keeping their vigil through all the uncounted centuries.


	4. Life on a Farm

**_A/N : [From this point onwards, you'll start to see the action taper off as I begin to place more focus on character development. Bear with me, if you don't like CD as much as I do, but if you do, enjoy hearing about our eponymous trio of SU characters whom you'll hear about in this chapter :) ]_**

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

 **The first thing** the boy Steven would remember was the kitchen at Alger's Farm. For the rest of his life, he would always have a special, warm feeling for kitchens and those peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into something bustling with life. A life that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and above all, home. No matter how far Steven would rise in life, he would never forget that all of his good memories began in a kitchen.

The kitchen at Alger's farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens and kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavernlike arched fireplaces. There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into loaves and chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick, crisp rocking movements of long, curved knives. When Steven was very small, he played under those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes out from under the feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around them. And sometimes in the late afternoon when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner and stare into one of the flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back from the hundred polished pots and knives and long-handled spoons that hung from pegs along the whitewashed walls and, all bemused, he would drift off into sleep in perfect peace and harmony with the world around him.

The centre of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Pearl. She seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or garnished a smoking ham fresh from the oven was always hers. Though there were several others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever went out of it that had not been touched at least once by Aunt Pearl. She knew by smell, taste, or some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned them all by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and power beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she always knew precisely where Steven was. In the very midst of crimping a pie crust or decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed chicken she could, without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back out from under the feet of others with heel or ankle.

As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Steven would watch until she seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to watching for his next chance to run away again.

He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pearl was quite the most important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller than the other women on Alger's farm-very nearly as tall as a man and her face was always serious-even stern-except with him, of course. Her hair was long and very dark-almost black-all but one lock just above her left brow which was white as new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand.

And watch over him she did. Many a night he would wake from restful slumber, conscious but not yet shaken entirely from the vestiges of sleep, to crack open an eye and see his Aunt Pearl in the far corner of the room, reclined in a rocking chair, eyes locked onto his sleeping form.

Every. Single. Time.

It made him feel warm. It made him feel loved. He would let that feeling wash over him, and ride its currents back into the world of dreams.

Once, though he wasn't sure, he thought he saw in place of Aunt Pearl, a snowy white owl preening itself at the windowsill. He blinked and it disappeared, Aunt Pearl in her place at her rocking chair. He wrote it off as a dream.

Alger's farm lay very nearly in the centre of Delmarvia, a misty kingdom bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of Wy-Ate. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Alger's farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon a central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery were the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who tilled and planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Alger himself lived in quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall where his workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during harvest time-to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pearl's kitchen.

All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Alger was a good master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer jaw. Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kind to those who worked for him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in health and well-being than extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many ways, he was more like a father than a master to the sixty-odd people who lived on his freeholding. He ate with them-which was unusual, since many farmers in the district sought to hold themselves aloof from their workers-and his presence at the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Alger was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence the blessing of the Diamonds before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with some decorum into the dining hall before each meal and sat in the semblance at least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt Pearl and her helpers had placed before them.

Because of Alger's good heart, and the magic of Aunt Pearl's deft fingers- the farm was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work for twenty leagues in any direction.

Whole evenings were spent in the tavern in the nearby village of Upper Geralt in minute descriptions of the near-miraculous meals served regularly in Alger's dining hall.

Less fortunate men who worked at other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at descriptions of one of Aunt Pearl's roasted geese, and the fame of Alger's farm spread wide throughout the district.

The most important man on the farm, aside from Alger, was Bismuth the smith. As Steven grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Pearl's watchful eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy.

The glowing iron that came from Bismuth's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Bismuth was a strong, muscled man with rainbow-coloured hair and a slightly cherubic face, both turned a ruddy brown from the heat of his forge.

He was somewhat tall and stout in figure, which made his figure very imposing. Many a shady traveller greeted by Aunt Pearl, Bismuth and Alger would think twice before thinking to try anything. He was sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also wore tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that part of Delmarvia.

At first Bismuth's only words to Steven were warnings to keep his fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time, however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.

"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad for the iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is needful."

"Why's that?" Steven would ask.

Bismuth would shrug. "It just is."

"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as he put a last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he was repairing.

"But that piece goes underneath," Steven said. "No one will ever see it."

"But I know it's there," Bismuth said, still smoothing the metal. "If it isn't done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see this wagon go by and I'll see the wagon every day."

And so it went. Without even intending to, Bismuth instructed the small boy in those solid Delmarvian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and practicality which formed the backbone of the society.

At first Aunt Pearl worried about Steven's attraction to the smithy with its obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she realized that Bismuth was almost as watchful of Steven's safety as she was herself and she became less concerned.

"If the boy becomes bothersome, my dear blacksmith, send him away," she told the smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him closer to the kitchen."

"He's no bother, Miss Pearl," Bismuth said, smiling. "He's a sensible boy and knows enough to keep out of the way."

"You're too good-natured, Bismuth," Aunt Pearl said. "The boy is full of questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out."

"That's how boys are," Bismuth said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into the small clay ring he'd placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the kettle. "I was full of questions myself when I was a boy. Me father and old Boll, the smith who taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I'd repay them poorly if I didn't have the same patience with Steven."

Steven, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation. He knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him from the smithy. As Aunt Pearl walked back smiling across the hard-packed dirt of the yard toward her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that Bismuth watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple idea, and the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone.

"Aunt Pearl," he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a rough cloth.

"Yes?" she said, turning her attention to his neck.

"Why don't you marry Bismuth?"

He felt her stiffen. "What?" she asked.

"I think it would be an awfully good idea."

"Oh, do you?" Her voice had taken on an iron edge, and Steven knew he was on dangerous ground.

"He likes you," he said defensively.

"And I suppose you've already discussed this with him?"

"No," he said. "I thought I'd talk to you about it first."

"At least that was a good idea."

"I can tell him about it tomorrow morning if you'd like."

His head was turned around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Pearl, Steven felt, found his ears far too convenient.

"Don't you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Bismuth or anyone else," she said, her teal eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen there before.

"It was only a thought," he said quickly.

"A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups." She was still holding his ear.

"Anything you say," he backpedaled hastily.

Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness, he approached the problem obliquely.

"Aunt Pearl?"

"Yes?"

"Since you don't want to marry Bismuth, whom do you want to marry?"

He heard her sigh in the darkness. "Steven," she began.

"Yes?"

"Close your mouth and go to sleep."

"I think I've got a right to know," he said in an injured tone.

"Steven!"

"All right. I'm going to sleep, but I don't think you're being very fair about all this."

Unbeknownst to Steven, her face took on a resigned expression, knowing that her next move would change the way he saw her.

"Very well," she sighed. "I'm not thinking of getting married. I have never thought of getting married and I seriously doubt that I'll ever think of getting married. I have far too many important things to attend to for any of that."

"Don't worry, Aunt Pearl," he said, wanting to put her mind at ease. "When I grow up, I'll marry you."

She paused suddenly, before erupting into stifled laughter. She reached out to caress the side of his cheek.

"Oh no, my baby," she said. "There's another wife in store for you."

And Steven was left to wonder what was meant by that.

"Aunt Pearl?"

"What is it now, Steven?"

"Where..." Steven paused. "What happened to my mother?"

The darkness stayed silent for a long, long time. Then, another sigh.

"She died, Steven." she said softly.

Inexplicably, though he barely knew her, he felt a sudden wrenching surge of grief. He began to cry.

And then she was beside his bed. She knelt on the floor and put her arms around him in a warm embrace.

Finally, a long time later, after she had carried him to her own bed and held him close until his grief had run its course, Steven asked brokenly, "What was she like? My mother?"

Had he not known better, Steven would have thought that the sigh she gave then was one of longing.

"She was... lovely." Aunt Pearl said, "She was very brave and very kind and very beautiful. Her voice was gentle, and she was very happy."

"Did she love me?"

"More than you could imagine."

And then he cried again, but his crying was quieter now, more regretful than anguished.

Aunt Pearl held him closely until he cried himself to sleep.

 _ **A/N : [**_ _ **If you're wondering where the other two are, patience my friends :)** **]**_


	5. The Friends We Made

Of course, there were other children besides Steven on the farm. It was only natural in a community of over sixty or so people. While those of age began working alongside their parents and neighbours, Steven, fortunately, had four other children with whom to pass the time on the homestead. These four children became his playmates and his friends.

The oldest one was named Pinto. It was an odd name for a Flaxen child, but that was because that was all his vocabulary consisted of. He was a year or two older than Steven, and a fair bit taller too. Ordinarily, this would make him the leader of the group; but because he was a Flax, his speech impediment notwithstanding, his sense was a bit limited, and so he cheerfully deferred to the other children.

The kingdom of Delmarvia, unlike other kingdoms, was inhabited by a wide variety of racial stocks. Wy-Ates, Ainur, Q'zareen, Flax, and even a substantial number of Shwar had merged to form the elemental Delmarvia. The Flaxen, of course, were a very courageous people, and as if to compensate, very dense.

Steven's second playmate was a diminutive little boy named Onion. His background was so mixed, it was only accurate to call him a Delmarvian. There were many notable things about Onion, for one, he was always running. He never walked if he could help it. He had quick fingers. Many a time, when Steven used to visit the smithy with Onion, Bismuth would always end up questioning where his tools went. It was comical, especially when the quality of his work necessitated swiftness, and Steven would end up stifling his laughter watching Bismuth grow more and more frantic in search of his misplaced tools, only to spy Onion out of the corner of his eye, with those very tools behind his back. He was a chatterbox. He talked so fast and so quickly, sometimes it seemed to Steven to be almost unintelligible murmuring. Or 'muhmuh'-ing as he would put it. Steven would often laugh watching Onion get riled up when teased about it by his friends.

The undisputed leader, or leaders, rather, of their little quintet, were a pair of twins, Elyne and Ellie. They were inseparable, and together, absolutely unstoppable. Charmers, the both of them, when they weren't quarrelling, they had the rest of the boys wrapped around their fingers. It was they who invented their fun little games, made up tales and set them to stealing apples from Farmer Alger's orchards. They were twin rulers, and their dominion the farm, playing each boy against the other like gladiators and inciting them into fights. They were quite ruthless at times, and all three of the boys found themselves hating them both on occasion, but remained, still, compliant to their every request.

In the early days of winter, they delighted in sliding down the snowy hillsides behind the farm on wide pallets, racing each other in grand fashion and having snowball fights. It was a most peculiar sight for the farm-goers to see five excited little children leave, and have them return hours later as five adorable snowmen, covered completely in snow and sleet. When winter set in, and their sledding expeditions could find no chaperones, they would turn to Bismuth instead to check on the safety of the ice. Once approved, they would slide endlessly across the glittering frozen pond, located conveniently just beside the group of sheds on the east of the homestead by the road to Upper Geralt. And if even that wasn't possible, they would gather in the barnhouses, the ones with the most hay, and leap from the highest loft into the soft hay beneath, filling their hair with chaff and their noses with dust that smelled of summer.

It was Onion, naturally, who fell from a tree one fine spring morning in the midst of catching squirrels while Elyne urged him into one of the higher branches in search of them. Since Pinto had just stood there, helplessly gaping like a stone, and Elyne herself had long since run away before Onion even hit the ground, it was up to Steven to make the difficult decision. Gravely he considered the situation for a few moments, his young face seriously intent beneath his black-haired locks. The arm was obviously broken, and Onion, pale and frightened, bit his lip to keep from crying.

Steven knelt beside Onion, intent on lifting him, when a movement caught his eye. A man in a dark cloak sat astride a large black horse not far away, watching intently. When their eyes met, Steven felt a momentary chill.

He had seen this man before. Indeed, that dark figure had hovered on the edge of his vision for as long as he could remember, never speaking, but always watching. There was, in that silent scrutiny, a kind of cold animosity curiously mingled with something that was almost, but not quite, fear.

Then Onion whimpered, and Steven turned back.

Carefully he bound the injured arm across the front of Onion's body with his rope belt, and then he and Pinto helped the injured boy to his feet.

"At least he could have helped us," Steven said resentfully.

"Who?" Pinto said, looking around.

Steven turned to point at the dark-cloaked man, but the rider was gone.

Steven swiftly, or at least with some semblance of swiftness, ferried Onion to Aunt Pearl's.

When the three appeared at the door of her kitchen, she paused for but a moment to take in the situation. She blinked.

"Bring him here." Said Aunt Pearl, her voice unwavering. She set the pale and violently trembling boy on a stool near one of the ovens and mixed a tea of several herbs taken from earthenware jars on a high shelf in the back of one of her pantries.

"Drink this," she instructed Onion, handing him a steaming mug.

"Will it make my arm well?" Onion asked in Onion-speak, suspiciously eyeing the evil-smelling brew.

"Just drink it, child." She began laying splints and bandages upon the table.

"Ech! It's awful!" He cried, making a face.

"It's supposed to be." Aunt Pearl replied. "Drink it all."

"I don't think I want anymore," he said.

She stared at him, with all the seriousness of a mother. Then she turned and lifted a long, sharp curving knife from a hook on the ceiling.

"W-what are you going to do with that?" Onion's voice took on an alarmed tone.

"Oh!" Her voice took a tone of mock surprise. "Well, since you're not going to drink your medicine, that means the arm isn't going to get better."

She sharpened the blade slowly, deliberately, against the hard stone countertop

"Which means it has to come off." She said ominously.

"Off?" Onion squeaked, his eyes bulging.

"Probably about right there," she remarked, thoughtfully touching his arm at the elbow with the knife point.

Tears filling his eyes, Onion gulped down the rest of the liquid in fear. A few minutes later he was nodding on his stool.

"Ugh... Head hurty." Onion said groggily.

He screamed only once as Aunt Pearl carried out her work, setting the bone, then the splints, and finally the bandages and sling. She spoke briefly with his frightened father then had Bismuth carry him off to bed.

"Aunt Pearl, you wouldn't really have cut his arm off, right?" said Steven. It was a statement. One he hoped she would corroborate.

Aunt Pearl had since returned to her work at the oven, but upon hearing his question, she turned her head ever so slightly to regard Steven.

"Oh?" She replied.

Steven was not so sure anymore.

—

He knew what birds sounded like. He heard finches and robins trill in the early morning, heard owls hoot deep into the night. But never had he heard such shrill chirping, for it could only be described as such, from Aunt Pearl's kitchen.

Ten minutes later a sobbing little girl stumbled out of it. Aunt Pearl stood in the doorway, her eyes hard as ice.

Steven's heart sank as Elyne fled, knowing that after his betrayal, she would likely not trust him for a long time.

"Did you thrash her?" Steven asked timidly as he approached.

Aunt Pearl withered him with a glance. "Of course I didn't, Steven." said she. "She's not my baby."

"So you only hit me!?" cried Steven incredulously. "That's not fair at-"

"Don't you have anything to do, Steven?" she said suddenly, cutting him off.

"No? Why?" Steven asked.

That, of course, was a mistake.

The rest of that day was spent in the scullery. Steven never really understood why all those pots and pans had to be scrubbed. They'd be cleaned and dirtied and cleaned, only to be used again. It seemed logical, at least to him, to at least get a few uses out of it first before cleaning it.

He'd brought up this obviously ingenious idea to Aunt Pearl once. Once. She gasped as though taken by the simple wonder, the sheer brilliance of his idea. He gasped, only seconds later, as his remaining quota of dishes was redoubled.

The rest of the spring and early summer for Steven was quiet. Onion couldn't play until his arm was mended. Elyne had been so shaken by whatever Aunt Pearl said to her that she avoided all of the boys. Ellie he never really liked anyway and Pinto was... well, Pinto. Effectively, Steven had no options left.

Playtime out of the question, the boys spent those warm summer days in the fields, atop stacks of hay, watching the farmhands at work and listening to their stories.

As it happened, during that particular summer the men on Alger's Farm were talking about the battle of I'chir Gelar, the most cataclysmic event in the history of the West. Steven and Pinto listened, enthralled, as the men unfolded the story of how Black Diamond's hordes has suddenly struck into the West some five centuries before.

It had all begun in 5081, as men reckoned time in that part of the world, when vast multitudes of Isyakeans, Drakans and Indratu had struck down across the mountains of the eastern escarpment into Q'zarnia, and behind them in endless waves came uncountable numbers of Alabastians.

After Q'zarnia had been brutally razed to the ground, the combined Alabastian hordes turned their attention southward to the grasslands of the Ainé. For eight straight years they had laid siege to the Ainurean Stronghold, until, in disgust, Black Diamond abandoned it. It was not until she turned her army towards the neutral state of Phenai-Dia that the other kingdoms became aware that this attack was not only meant for the collective Sangrian races, but against the West itself.

It came to pass that in the summer of 5091, the armies of Black Diamond took passage through the Flaxen plains until they arrived before the city of I'chir Gelar, and it was there that the combined forces of the West awaited her.

The Delmarvians who participated in that battle were under the leadership of Ophidian, the Steward of Hrod. That force, consisting of Hrodenites, Delmarvians, and Southern Flaxen, had attacked from the rear after the left had been engaged minutes prior by the Ainur, Q'zareen and the Phenae, and the right by the Wy-Ates and Shwareans. The front of their ranks was decimated by the legendary Charge of the Gelarian Brigade. Upon their corundrum-tipped lances fell ten, twenty, fifty Alabastians each, and the longer the battle raged, the more that fell. Thus and so, it continued as such until the booming voice of Ophidian rang out across the battlefield, challenging Black Diamond to trial by single combat. Almost as if on cue, the collective ranks of both Alabastia and the Western nations ceased their fighting. Upon this duel would be decided the outcome of the battle, and everyone knew it.

Although twenty odd generations had passed since that monolithic encounter, it was still fresh in the memory of all Delmarvian farmers as though it was only yesterday. In painstaking detail was each blow described, each feint and each parry. At the final moment, when it seemed inevitable that the man would fall before the wrath of a God, Ophidian had cast aside the cloth upon his shield, and Black Diamond, pausing in confusion, was instantly struck down in the moment of her lowered guard.

For Pinto, the mere recounting of this tale sent his Flaxen blood aflame. For Steven however, this raised more questions than answers.

"Why was Ophidian's shield covered?" he asked the farmer.

He shrugged in response. "I dunno. It just was." He replied. "Everyone I've ever shared the story with agrees on that."

Steven's brow furrowed. "So... was it a magic shield?"

"It might have been." shrugged the farmer again. "Whatever it was, when Ophidian revealed his shield, One-eye dropped hers, and he ran her through her bad eye into the back of her skull."

Steven was getting tired of his shrugging. "But I don't understand!" He cried, exasperated.

"How could one dumb shield have won us the war?"

"I can't say." said the farmer. "I've never heard anyone explain it."

Thoroughly unsatisfied with both the story's ending and the farmer's continued nonchalance, Steven left them behind, with Pinto following after.

When Pinto offered to re-enact the battle, Steven, seeing a chance for potential insight, readily agreed.

Two sets of pots and kettles disappeared mysteriously from Aunt Pearl's kitchen that evening, and Pinto and Steven, now armed to the teeth, locked sticks with each other in an epic battle that would once again decide the fate of the world.

It all went quite splendidly until Pinto, older and stronger than Steven, landed a crushing blow upon the side of his helm with his stick, causing the kettle rim to bite deep into the side of Steven's head. Blood began to flow. There was a sudden ringing in Steven's ears, and he felt something come alive and spread like wildfire through his veins, as he raised his weapon in burning exultation against Pinto, no, Black Diamond herself.

He never quite recalled the outcome of that battle. Only the distant echoes of shouting in his mind. Words of defiance cried out in rage against the Dread Diamond and Pinto's face blurring away into something hideous, something monstrous, which in livid fury, Steven had struck at with every once of strength he had, over and over again.

And then it was over. Poor Pinto laid there, broken and unconscious at his feet. Beaten to within an inch of his life. Steven was horrified by what he had done, but at the same time, he felt a strange sense of triumph.

"If you're going to make a habit out of this, Steven, you're going to get a permanent job as a scullion for the rest of the summer." Aunt Pearl said without even looking up.

Then she stood and examined Pinto. She grabbed a few cloths from the clothesline and dipped them in icy-cold water. Steven wondered how she had gotten the water ready so quickly on a hot midsummer day, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Aunt Pearl dabbed lightly at each raised bump on Pinto's head, then left the cloth on as she poured one of her mysterious mixtures gently down his throat.

"That should do it. Now," Aunt Pearl said calmly, turning her attention to Steven. "Your turn."

The cut on Steven's brow required a bit more attention. She had Bismuth hold him down as she took a needle and thread to his forehead, stitching the wound as patiently as you would when fixing a rip in one's clothing, all the while ignoring the howls of her patient.

When it was over, Steven walked away with a raging headache.

He was surprised with the overall reaction his injury elicited from her. He vaguely remembered how anxious Aunt Pearl had been when he was younger, chasing him down like a runaway hen, babbling hysterically all the while, as he waddled toward the pitchfork shed.

"I finally beat Black Diamond." Steven mumbled groggily as Aunt Pearl set him to bed.

She turned sharply.

"What? Who told you about the Diamond?" she demanded.

"It's Black Diamond, Aunt Pearl." he explained patiently.

"Answer me Steven."

"The farmers were talking about it down in the fields. That's who Pinto and I were playing as. I was pretending that he was Black Diamond and I was Ophidian." Steven explained.

Aunt Pearl came to his side and gripped him firmly.

"Steven, listen to me very carefully. I never want to hear you speak of this Diamond again. Understand?

"It's Black Diamond, Aunt P-"

He was silenced by a sharp slap across his mouth. It surprised him more than it hurt him though, for it wasn't a hard slap. He teared up a little.

"You don't have to get so angry about it." He said in an injured tone.

"Promise me, Steven."

"Okay. I promise. It was just a game, Aunt Pearl."

"A really bad one." She replied. "You might have killed Pinto."

"What about me?" Steven asked.

"You were never in any danger," said she. "Now go to sleep, Steven."

As he began to drift off, his head light from the injury and the bitter mixture his Aunt gave him, he heard from far, far away, a voice mention his name. "Oh Steven, my baby, you're still far too young for this.". And later, rising from deep sleep as a fish rises towards the pond's silvery surface, he seemed to hear her call out into the darkness.

"Father. I need you."

Then he plunged again into the dark folds of sleep. Haunted by a dark figure of a man on a black horse, watching with cold animosity that bordered on the edge of fear, and behind that man, someone he had always known to be there but never overtly acknowledged, even to his Aunt Pearl. A face. Maimed and ugly, like the one Pinto's had shifted into, looming over him, like dark ominous clouds on the horizon signalling an oncoming storm.

 _ **A/N : [ Father? Who might that be I wonder :) ]** _


	6. The Wolf Who Wonders

**Summary : An old friend of the farm revisits Steven and his Aunt, only this time, he gets to know him a little better.**

 _A/N : [ **Warning: A little bit of repeat history folks.**_

 ** _But pay close attention, there are lines being drawn here. Connections that will mean something in the chapters to come. ]_**

In the endless summer days of Steven's boyhood, between playing with wild abandon with his farmyard friends and helping Aunt Pearl in her kitchen, he felt the creeping tendrils of boredom slowly seep into his mind as routine began to settle in. Luckily for him, the storyteller appeared once again at Alger's Farm.

The storyteller was a rather peculiar fellow. He hadn't a name. Not a proper one anyway. Everyone called him a different nickname, and he seemed, almost on instinct, to know when it was him that was being called. He was, by any measure, a thoroughly disreputable old man. It was impossible to tell if his pants had any of their original fabric left, for all the patches it had, and his toes were wiggling out of his mismatched shoes. He wore a long-sleeved, brown woollen tunic that was so worn, it felt like a burlap sack to the touch, though he insisted it was comfy. It was hooded, an uncommon sight in those parts of Delmarvia, and so Steven thought it quite fine how its loosely fitting yoke neatly covered his shoulders and back. His cloak, however, seemed relatively new.

The old man's white hair was cropped quite close, as was his beard. Despite that, he seemed far from feeble. His face was strong, and had a kind of angularity to it that suggested he must have been quite the heartthrob in his youth. Though, there was no clue in his facial features that suggested any sort of descent Steven was familiar with. He wasn't Wy-Atian, Flaxen, Ainur, Delmarvian, Hroden nor Shwaran, but seemed rather to have been derived from some ancient stock long since forgotten. His eyes, however, were his most prominent feature. They were a piercing teal blue, within which glinted the elusive sparks of youth and mischief.

He appeared from time to time on Alger's Farm, and was always welcome. He was, in truth, a wandering vagabond. His stories weren't always new ones, indeed, some of them Steven had heard since he was but a wee babe, but there was a certain magic in his telling of them. He was a master of mimicry. Each time Steven saw him, he seemed to add a new voice to his repertoire. He could bellow and roar with all the might of the dragons of old, then bring it down to a zephyr-like whisper. He could imitate the voices of a dozen men, sometimes all at once. He could chirp so well that the birds themselves would come to hear what he had to say, and when he howled at the moon, it could raise the hairs on the backs of even the most grown of the farmhands and strike chills into the hearts of even the most experienced of Q'zarnian writers. He could recreate the sound of rain and of wind and most miraculously, the sound of falling snow. His stories were never filled with just words but all the sounds of the natural world that made them come alive, and through the sounds and the words with which he wove the tales, sight and smell and even the very feel of those strange times and places seemed to come to life for his listeners.

All of this wonder, he exchanged freely for but a few tankards of ale, meals, and a warm spot of hay on which to sleep in the barn. He roamed the world seemingly as free of mortal worry and belongings as the birds themselves, save for one instrument, his prized lute.

His lute he kept on his person at all times, and he cherished it as one would a long lost lover, found again after a century's search. He wasn't as good with it as he was with his spoken craft, but it was enough to enrapture Steven all the same. Steven had approached it one night as he lay sleeping, and tried to pick up to pluck a few of its strings, only to have his hand be seized by another that shot out and caught him in the dark. Steven marveled that one so old could still be so quick, and mentally noted that for future reference.

That was his first personal interaction with the Old Wolf.

Yes, Old Wolf, as Aunt Pearl would call him. Between her and the old man, there seemed to be some sort of hidden recognition, though Steven knew not what. She always viewed his arrival with a kind of wry acceptance, knowing that the ultimate treasures of her kitchen, her culinary creations, would never be safe so long as he lurked about the area. Entire loaves and hot cakes would go missing when he was around, and his quick knife, ever-ready, could neatly carve the most carefully prepared chicken of a pair of drumsticks and a generous slab of breast meat with three swift slices while her back was turned.

Truly, of the infinitudes of nicknames attributed to him, Old Wolf was the most fitting, and his reappearance on the farm meant the resumption of a contest which had obviously been going on for years. He flattered her shamelessly, outrageously, even as he stole from her. An offered plate of cookies would be politely refused only to have half its contents be stolen as she turned to move elsewhere. Her beer stocks may as well have been delivered to him at the gate for all the effort she took in rationing it.

It was as if pilferage was one of his life's greatest delights, and even if her iron gaze, legendary amongst man and gem alike, was turned upon him, he could easily find a dozen more confederates willing to do the job for him in exchange for a story.

Lamentably for Aunt Pearl, one of his most prolific disciples was none other than Steven himself.

Often, driven to the point of distraction by having to watch an old thief and his fledgling at once, she would simply equip the nearest broom and drive them both out of her kitchen, leaving shrilly uttered words and resounding blows in her wake. And the old storyteller, laughing and snorting, would flee with his young protégé to some secluded spot to enjoy the spoils of their pilferage over a story and a song.

The best stories, of course, were saved for the dining hall when, after the evening meal was over and the plates had been carried away, the old man would rise from his spot, lute in hand, and begin the process of carrying his listeners off into a land of magical enchantment.

"Tell us of the beginnings, old friend." Said Farmer Alger, ever pious. "And of the Diamonds." he added.

"Hmmmm. Of beginnings.. and the Diamonds eh?" the Old Wolf mused. "A fan favourite, Alger, but a dry and dusty one."

"You find everything dry and dusty, Old Wolf," said Aunt Pearl, drawing off a tankard of foamy ale for him.

"It's one of the hazards of my profession, Mistress Pearl." he explained. He gratefully accepted the tankard, then drank deep from its depths. He lowered his head in thought for but a moment, then stared directly, or so it seemed, at Steven.

Then he did something he had never done before in all the days he had told stories at the hall.

He drew up his cloak about him and rose to his full height.

"Behold," he began, his voice rich and sonorous "At the beginning of all days made the Diamonds the world, and the seas within, the skies above and the dry land below. And cast they the stars across the night sky and did set the sun and his wife, the moon, in the heavens to bear light upon the world."

"And the Diamonds caused the Earth to bring forth its beasts, and the water to bud with fish, and the sky to flower with birds."

"From shining stone, they made Gem-kind, flawless and eternal, in reflection of their own perfection, and from the earth sprung the first Men, resilient and sturdy and strong. To them was bequeathed the Earth, and they were divided into Peoples."

"The Diamonds themselves were seven in number, and like their people, were all equal, and they were Pink, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Grey and White."

Steven knew the story of course, as far as he knew, everyone did in that part of Delmarvia. He wondered if he was the only one who questioned why the colour spectrum deviated at Blue.

Though the tale was familiar, he had never heard it told in such a way. His mind soared upon the high currents of imagination as he envisioned the Diamonds themselves striding across the world in those dim, misty days when the world was first being made. A chill came over him at each mention of the forbidden name of White Diamond.

He listened intently how each Diamond selected a people. For Pink the Sangrians, for Orange the Shwar, for Yellow the Flaxen, for Green the Olivines, for Blue the Lazulites, which are no more, and for White, the Alabastians. And he heard of how Grey dwelt apart and considered the stars in her solitude, and how some very few people she accepted as her disciples.

Steven took a glance at the others who were listening. Their faces were rapt with their undivided attention. Bismuth's eyes were wide, Farmer Alger's face was pale, tears gathering in his eyes, and Pinto's hands were gripping the edge of his seat tightly. Through it all, he noticed how Aunt Pearl stood in the rear of the room. Though it wasn't chilly that summer night, she had drawn her shawl about her and stood very straight and still. Her eyes intent.

"And it came to pass," the storyteller continued, "That Grey Diamond, through quiet pondering, saw the wisdom to create a jewel in the shape of a globe, and behold within the jewel was captured in part the essence of all creation, the light from the stars above, a fraction of the power of every living creature below. And great was the enchantment upon the artifact Men soon called The Grey Ward, for, with it, Grey Diamond saw all that was, all which had been, and all which had yet to be."

Steven realised he was holding his breath tight, for he was now completely spellbound by the tale. He listened in wonder as the usurper White Diamond stole the Ward and used it to sunder the earth and let in the sea to drown the land, until the Ward struck back against its grave misuse by corrupting the left side of her face and rendering inert her left hand and eye.

The old man paused to drain the rest of his tankard. Aunt Pearl, with her shawl still close about her, brought him another, her movements somehow stately and her teal eyes aflame.

"I've never heard- well, I've never seen it being told like that." Bismuth said softly.

"It's The Book of the Sangrians. It's told only in the presence of Kings." replied an old farmer. "I knew a man once who had heard it at the King's Court in Delmarvia. Never heard it all before though."

The story continued, recounting how Gregarion the Sorcerer had led Wy-Ate of Sangria and his three children into the East to reclaim the Ward some two thousand years later, and how the western lands were settled and guarded against the hosts of Alabastia. The Diamonds withdrawn from the world, Hrodenheid was tasked to safeguard the Ward in his fortress on The Shivering Isles. There he forged his great sword and set the Ward upon its hilt. While the ward remained there and Hrodenheid sat upon the throne, Black could not prevail.

Then Gregarion sent his favourite daughter to Hrodenheim to be a mother to a line of kings, while his other daughter remained with him and learned his art, for the mark of sorcerers was upon her.

The old storyteller's voice was now very soft as his ancient tale drew to a close.

"And between them, did Gregarion and his daughter, the Sorceress Polina, set enchantments upon the world itself, to keep watch against the coming of the Black One. And some men say they shall abide against it forevermore, for it is prophesied that Black Diamond shall indeed return again, with all the fury of the East combined, and in time where battle shall be joined between her and the fruit of the line of Hrod, shall the fate of the world be decided once more."

And then the old man fell silent, letting his tired shoulders droop and his cloak fall from his arms, signifying that his tale was at an end.

There was a long silence in the hall then, broken only by a few faint crackles from the dying fire and the incessant song of frogs and crickets in the summer air outside.

Finally, Alger cleared his throat and stood up, his bench scraping audibly on the wooden floor.

"You have done us much honour this night, my friend." He said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is an event, make no mistake, that we will remember all our lives. That story is a kingly gift you've bestowed upon us, not usually wasted on ordinary folk."

The old man grinned then under his hood, his blue eyes a'twinkling with mischief.

"I haven't consorted with many kings of late, Alger." He laughed. "They all seem to be too busy to listen to old tales, and a story must be told from time to time if it is not to be lost."

"Besides," He continued. "Who knows these days where a king might be hiding?"

They all laughed at that and began to push back their benches, for it was growing late and time for those who had to be up the following morn with the first light of sun to seek their warm beds.

Steven made to do the same, when he was stopped at the shoulder by a hand.

"Will you carry a lantern for me to the place where I sleep, boy?" asked the old man.

"Of course." said Steven, jumping up and running into the kitchen.

As he turned away, Steven saw a strange look pass between the storyteller and Aunt Pearl, who still stood at the back of the hall.

"Why was the story left unfinished?" asked Steven as they walked. "Why did you stop before we found out what happened between Black Diamond and the Hroden King?"

"That's another story." the old man remarked.

"Will you tell it to me sometime?"

"See, now that's going to be hard, considering it hasn't happened yet."

Steven stopped for a beat. Something didn't add up in his sensible mind.

"It is only a story though, right?" Steven asserted.

"Is it?" The old man produced a tankard of ale and took a swig. "Who's to say what is only a story, and what is the truth disguised as a story?"

"It's only a story." Steven stubbornly reiterated, suddenly feeling very practical like any good-headed Delmarvian. "It can't really be true. Why, that would mean that Gregarion the Sorcerer would be... errr... well, I don't know how old, and humans DO NOT live that long."

"Seven thousand years old." The old man replied.

"What?"

"Gregarion the Sorcerer." the old man said while appearing to ponder, "Should be around seven thousand years old now by my estimate."

"That's impossible."

"Is it? How old are you?"

"Ten. Eleven next year."

"My, my, ten years on this Earth and you already know what's both possible and impossible? You're a remarkable boy, Steven."

Steven flushed. "Well." he said, suddenly unsure of himself. "The oldest man I know is old Sputnik and he lives over on the other side of the road. Bismuth says he's over ninety and that he's the oldest man in the district."

"And it's a very big district, of course." said the old man solemnly.

"How old are you, sir?" Steven asked.

"Old enough, boy."

"It's still only a story though." said Steven, a measure of his confidence returned.

"Many good and solid men would say so, Steven." the old man said. "Good men who will live out their lives believing only in what they can see and what they can touch. But there's a world out there that lives by its own laws, Steven. A world which knows about the laws of this one but does not care to be constrained by it. And what may be impossible here, may very well be possible over there. Sometimes, the boundaries between both worlds may even disappear, and then who's to say what's possible and impossible anymore?" He mused further.

"I think I'd rather live here." Steven said, his mind whirling with the information. "The other world sounds so complicated."

"We don't always have that choice, Steven." The old man said, turning to face him directly. "What if someday the other world chooses you to do something that must be done? Some great and noble deed?"

"Me?" said Steven incredulously.

"Stranger things have happened, Steven. Now go off to bed. Your Aunt Pearl must be looking for you." he said, dismissing Steven. "The stars and I have a lot to talk about."

"The stars?" said Steven, glancing up at the sky. What did any of their conversation have to do with the stars?

"You're a very strange old man sir, if you don't mind my saying so." Steven blurted out.

A soft silence settled for a moment, then it was broken again.

"Yes, quite," he replied. "Probably the strangest you'll meet."

"B-but I like you anyway!" Steven added, not wanting to upset his mentor.

He swore he saw the beginnings of a wry-old half smile curl his lip.

"That's a nice thought, Steven." said the old man. "Now, leave, before she starts screaming at the both of us."

And with that, Steven hurried off to bed.

Later that night, in restless sleep, Steven saw, as he did the night before, troubling visions of Black Diamond, her cankered, corrupted visage looming over him. He saw vicious, twisted, abnormal things chase him across vile hellscapes, where the possible and impossible merged into a perverse reality as that other world reached out to claim him.


	7. No Place For Boys

**Summary : Steven and the Storyteller make a quick trip into the nearest town on an errand. They meet someone unexpected.**

 _ **A/N : [** **In this part of the story, we develop the storyteller's relationship with Steven a little.**_

 _ **Character Development Episode again. I'm sorry my dudes. ]**_

Some mornings after, when Aunt Pearl's tolerance of him had gone from wry half-smiles to deepening scowls, the old man made an excuse of some errand to run in the nearby village of Upper Geralt.

"Good." Aunt Pearl said, somewhat rudely. "At least my kitchen will be safe while you're gone."

He bowed mockingly before her, his eyes twinkling as they so often did.

"Would you require anything, Mistress Pearl?" He asked. "Something from the market perhaps, while I'm to be away?"

Aunt Pearl thought for a moment.

"Some of my spice pots are a bit low..." she mused. "And there's a Shwarean spice merchant in Fereldan Lane just south of the town tavern. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding the tavern , so I trust you can find him as well."

"The trip is likely to be long." admitted the Old Wolf pleasantly. "And lonely too. Ten leagues with no one to walk with is a long way."

"Talk to the birds then." quipped Aunt Pearl.

"Birds are well and good, Miss Pearl, but their speech gets a bit repetitive I'm afraid. Why don't I take Steven along instead?"

Steven, who was sitting nearby, scrubbing a pot for the umpteenth time, held his breath.

"He's picking up enough bad habits of his own, Old Wolf," said Aunt Pearl tartly. "I'd prefer he not have expert instruction."

"Why, Mistress Pearl!" the old man objected, stealing a cookie almost absently off the table, "you do me a most grievous injustice. A change of scenery might do the boy well - broaden his horizons, you might say."

"His horizons are quite broad enough, thank you."

Steven's heart sunk.

"Although," she continued, "at least I know that with Steven there, I can count on him not to forget my spice altogether, or to become so befuddled with ale that he mixes up peppercorn with cloves or cinnamon with nutmeg."

"Very well," she conceded, "you may take Steven with you; but I might I remind you that he has no business visiting those places you so often do, Old Wolf."

"Well, I never, Mistress Pearl! These attacks on my reputation are uncalled for!" said he, feigning shock. "When would I have ever?"

Aunt Pearl scoffed.

"I know you far too well, Old Wolf," she said dryly. "You take to vice and corruption like a fish to water."

She began moving back towards the kitchen, but stopped at the doorway. The old man took her turning as his cue to leave and motioned for Steven to follow.

"I warn you though," her voice took on the quality of ice. "If I hear that you've taken the boy to any unsavoury places... You and I will have words."

The old man, his back turned, smiled wryly, wilfully ignoring the dreadful intensity of the two azure lasers boring into his back.

"Then I'll have to make sure you don't hear of it, won't I?" he dared reply.

Aunt Pearl's iron gaze turned molten.

"I'll see what spices I need." She said slowly, deliberately her voice deadly low as she crossed through the portal into the kitchen.

"And I'll borrow a horse and cart from Alger." said the old man, his mouth half-full from another stolen cookie.

In no time at all, Steven found himself bouncing along the road on a cart beside the old man, behind a fast-trotting horse. It was bright and sunny that day. There were a few dandelion-puff clouds in the sky and deep blue shadows under the hedgerows.

After a few hours, however, the sun's heat became unbearable, and the jolting, rickety ride tiresome.

"Are we there yet?" asked Steven for the third time.

"Nope. And we won't be for some time. Ten leagues is a goodly distance, Steven."

"I was there once," Steven said, trying to sound casual. "Of course, I was only a child at the time so I don't remember too much about it. It seemed a fine place though." He continued.

He didn't notice the old man suppressing a chuckle at the statement. Only a child indeed.

"It's a village, much like any other." shrugged the old man. He seemed a bit preoccupied.

Steven, hoping to nudge the old man into a story to make the miles go faster, began peppering him with questions.

"Why is it that you have no name- if it's not rude of me to ask?"

"I go by many names," the old man said, scratching his scruffy white beard. "Almost as many names as I have years on this Earth."

"I've only got the one." said Steven.

"For now."

"What?"

"You only have one so far," the old man explained. "In time, you might get another, or even several. Some people collect names like acorns throughout their whole lives, and some names wear out, just like my clothes."

"Aunt Pearl calls you Old Wolf." Steven said.

"I know," the old man said absently. "Your Aunt Pearl and I have known each other for a very long time."

"Why does she call you that?"

"Who can say why a woman such as your Aunt does anything?"

"Can I call you Mister Wolf?" Steven asked. Names were quite important to Steven, and the fact that the old, portly storyteller did not seem to have a fixed one always bothered him. It seemed to leave him incomplete and unfinished, like the stories he'd so often tell.

The old man looked at him for but a moment, deep in thought, then burst out laughing.

"Mister Wolf indeed." he sighed. "How very appropriate. I think I like that name more than any other name I've had in years."

"May I then?" Steven asked excitedly. "Call you Mister Wolf, I mean?"

"I think I'd like that Shtu-roll. I'd like that very much."

"Shtu what?"

"Now, how's about a story, Steven?" he quickly added, chuckling as a starry-eyed Steven started nodding furiously.

The time and distance went by much faster afterwards as Mister Wolf regaled Steven with tale after tale of glorious adventures and darkest treacheries, taken from those gloomy days of the Flaxen Civil Wars.

"Why are the Flax like that?" inquired Steven after one particularly grim story.

"The Flaxen are a very noble people," Wolf said, lounging back in the seat of the cart with reins held negligently in one hand. "Nobility isn't a very trustworthy trait. It makes people do things for reasons that can be very obscure."

"Pinto is a Flax." Steven was quick to add. "He sometimes seems to be... well, not very good at catching things, if you know what I mean."

"It's the effect of all that nobility," said Wolf. "They spend so much time concentrating on it that there's no room for much else to enter."

They came over the crest of a high hillock, and there in the next valley lay the village of Upper Geralt. To Steven, the tiny cluster of grey stone houses with slate roofs seemed small. Disappointingly so.

Two roads, stained white by a thick layer of dust, intersected there, and there were a few narrow, winding streets that branched off from it. The houses were square and solid, but seemed almost like toys set out in the valley below. The horizon beyond was ragged with the mountains of Eastern Delmarvia, and though it was summer, the tops of most of the mountains were still capped with snow.

The tired horse plodded down the hill towards the village, his hooves stirring little clouds of dust with each step, and soon they were clattering along the cobblestone streets towards the centre of the village.

The villagers, of course, were all too important to pay any attention to an old man and a small boy in a farm cart. The women wore gowns and high-pointed hats, and the men wore doublets and soft-velvet caps. Their expressions were haughty, and they looked upon the few farmers there were in town with obvious disdain. The farmers, conditioned from birth, respectfully stood aside to let them pass.

"They're very fine, aren't they?" Steven observed.

"They certainly seem to think so," said Wolf, amused. "I think it's time we found a place to eat, don't you?"

Though he had not realised it until the old man mentioned it, Steven was suddenly ravenous.

"Where would we go?" he asked. "They all seem so splendid. Would any of them let strangers sit at their tables?"

Wolf laughed and patted a jingling purse at his waist.

"We shouldn't have a problem making acquaintances," he said. "There are plenty of places where one might buy food."

BUY FOOD? Steven had never heard of such a thing before. On Alger's Farm, anyone who wandered in during mealtimes was invited to a place at the table as a matter of fact. The world of the villagers was jarringly different from that of the farm.

"But I don't have any money!" Steven objected.

"I've enough for us both, Steven." Mister Wolf assured him. He stopped and moored the horse outside a large, low building with a sign bearing a picture of a large cluster of grapes above a foaming mug. It had words too, but of course, Steven could not read them.

"What do the words say, Mister Wolf?"

"They say that food and drink can be purchased inside," Wolf told him as he got down from the cart.

"It must be a fine thing," Steven said wistfully. "Being able to read."

Steven saw the old man's silhouette on the other side of the horse freeze up suddenly, before he swiftly came around to face Steven.

"You can't read, boy?" He asked incredulously.

"I've never found anyone to teach me," Steven admitted earnestly. "Alger reads, I think. But no one else at the farm does."

Wolf began to spit and sputter, apparently trying hard to find the words to speak.

"That's nonsense!" He cried. "Didn't your Aunt school you and the other children on the basics of reading and writing?"

"What's a school?" Steven asked. "And Aunt Pearl can read and write?"

Wolf, his body seized in apparent apoplexy, looked quite comical standing there frozen, his eyes wide with an expression of outrage plastered across his face. Indeed, the only reaction he gave to Steven's question was a slight twitch of his right eye. Steven, staring blankly back at him, shrugged in response.

"This is outrageous!" Wolf cried, barging in through the tavern doors.

"Aunt Pearl can **read** **and** **write**?" asked Steven, stunned.

"Of course she can!" said Wolf irritably. "She says she finds little advantage in it, but she and I had that particular argument out many years ago."

To say that he was upset by Steven's lack of education would be the understatement of the year. He went on to elaborate, but Steven was far too interested in the smoky interior of the tavern to pay much attention.

The room was large and dark with a low, beamed ceiling and a stone floor strewn with rushes and bracken. Though it was not a cold day, a fire burned in a stone pit in the centre of the room, smoke rising errantly toward a chimney set above it on four stone pillars. Tallow candles stood guttered in clay dishes on several of the long, stained tables, and the smell of stale beer and wine permeated the air.

"What have you in the way of food?" Wolf asked the barkeep.

"We've a bit of joint left," the man said, pointing at a spit resting to one side of the fire pit.

"Roasted only a day before yesterday. Our meat porridge's fresh, just cooked yesterday morning, and we've got fresh bread only a week old."

Wolf cocked an eyebrow. Steven seriously doubted this man understood what the word fresh meant.

"Very well," Wolf said as he sat down, "I'll have a pot of your best ale and... milk for the boy."

"Milk?" Steven protested.

"Milk." Wolf affirmed.

"You got the coin?" said the barkeep sourly.

Wolf jingled his purse, and the sour man suddenly looked less sour.

As he strode away, Steven took in the tavern once more. He figured this place would be what Aunt Pearl would term 'unsavoury'. He saw men of all sorts here, scrawny, haggard and dishevelled to gruff, burly, intimidating ones. They minded their own business but looked as though they'd draw swords in a heartbeat if Steven so much as looked at them wrong. The barmaids' clothing left little to the imagination, and the colourful comments and gestures the men would make their way left little Steven at quite a loss for words. He had no idea why anyone would want to see up a girl's skirt. Didn't they all know what was there?

Most puzzling of all, was how people would use the tables as a spot to sleep, here in a smoky, rowdy tavern of all places. It hardly seemed conducive.

"Why is that man over there sleeping?" Steven asked.

"Drunk." Wolf said, scarcely even bothering to glance at the snoring man.

"Shouldn't someone take care of him?"

"He'd rather not be taken care of."

"Do you know him?"

"I do know of him actually," Wolf said somewhat lazily as he drained another long sip of ale from his tankard. "And many others like him. Occasionally, I've been in that position myself."

"Why?"

"It seemed appropriate at the time."

The barkeep arrived with the food shortly after that. The roast was dry and overdone. The meat porridge was thin with the consistency of pond water, and the bread was stale. But Steven didn't care. He was far too hungry.

"It's a nice place." Steven remarked after he was done, more to the objective of making small talk rather than out of any real conviction. In truth, Upper Geralt did not live up to his expectations in the slightest.

"It's adequate." Wolf shrugged. "Village taverns are pretty much the same the world over. I've seldom seen one I'm in a hurry to revisit. Shall we go?" Wolf continued, standing and tossing a few coins, which the sour-looking barkeep quickly snatched up.

Steven winced as he was led out again into the afternoon sunlight. It was far too bright out.

"Let's go find your Aunt's spice merchant," he said. "and then to see to a night's lodging, and a stable for our horse.". They set off down the street, leaving horse and cart by the tavern.

The house of the Shwarean spice merchant was a tall, narrow building in the adjacent street. Two swarthy, thick-bodied men in short tunics loitered in the street at his front door near a fierce looking black horse wearing a curious armoured saddle. The two men stared with dull-eyed disinterest at the passers-by walking down the lane. When Mister Wolf saw them, however, he froze.

"Is something wrong?" asked Steven.

"Drakans." Wolf whispered, looking hard at the two men.

"What?"

"Those two are Drakans." the old man replied. "They usually work as porters for the Isyaki."

"What are Isyaki?"

"The people of Sivu-Isyak." Wolf said shortly. "Southern Alabastians."

"Alabastians? You mean the ones we beat at I'chir Gelar? What are they doing here?"

"The Isyaki have taken up commerce," Wolf said. "I hadn't expected to see one of them in such a remote village."

"We may as well go in now." Wolf continued. "The Drakans have seen us, and it will look weird if we turned around and went back. Stay close to me, Steven, and **don't say a word.** "

They walked past the two heavyset Drakans into the spice shop.

The Shwarean was a thin, bald man wearing an orange gown with sewn gold highlights that stretched down to the floor. He was nervously weighing several packets of pungent-smelling powder which lay on the counter before him.

"G-G-Good d-day to you sir!" he stuttered out. "Please, have patience. I'll attend to you shortly." He spoke with a slight stutter that Steven found peculiar.

"No hurry," Wolf said in a wheezy, cracking voice. Steven sharply turned to regard him and was astonished to see that Mister Wolf had doubled over, reducing his frame considerably, and was foolishly nodding his head.

"See to their needs," said the other man in the shop dismissively. He was a dark, burly man wearing a chain-mail shirt and a short sword belted to his waist. His cheekbones were high, and there were several savage-looking scars on his face. His eyes looked curiously angular, and his voice was harsh and thickly-accented.

"No hurry, no hurry" said Wolf in that peculiar wheezy cackle of his.

"No. You are in a hurry. My business here will take some time," said the Isyaki coldly. "And I prefer not to be rushed. Tell the merchant here what you need, old man."

"My thanks, then" Wolf cackled. "I have a list here somewhere about me... Let me see now..." his voice tapered off.

"My master drew it up," Wolf gave the slip over to the merchant with trembling, feeble looking hands. "I hope you can read it, friend merchant, for I cannot."

The merchant glanced at the list.

"This will only take a moment." he told the Isyaki.

The Isyaki nodded and stood to stare stonily at Wolf, then at Steven. Steven imagined gears ticking like clockwork inside the man's head. Tick tick tick tick . Ding! They went as Steven saw a flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

Oh shit.

"You're a seemly appearing boy," he said to Steven. "What's your name?"

Up until that moment, for the entirety of the ten years (soon to be eleven) he had lived upon the Earth, Steven had been a truthful, honest boy. But Wolf's mannerisms had opened before his eyes an entire world of deception and subterfuge. All his instincts screamed at him in warning against divulging the truth of his real name. It even had a voice. It was a dry, calm voice and it advised him warily to take steps to protect himself. He hesitated for only a moment before telling his first deliberate lie. He allowed his mouth to drop open and hang there, quite deliberately, for some time, all the while assuming an expression of vacant-headed stupidity.

"Pintooooooooh," he drawled insipidly, then paused to suck in his saliva. "Your Honour." He smiled from ear to ear.

The Isyaki, his eyes narrowing even more, decided to continue his line of questioning.

"Is that a Flaxen name? You don't look like a Flax." he said.

Steven gaped at him.

"Are you a Flaxen, Pintoh?" the Isyaki pressed.

Steven frowned outwardly as though struggling with a difficult thought. But on the inside, his mind was racing. The dry voice suggested several alternatives.

"My... my father was," he said with difficulty. "But my mother's Delmarvian and people say I favour her."

"Ah! You said was ." the Isyaki said quickly. "Is he dead then?" His scarred face tightened with intent.

Steven scoffed inwardly. This part came naturally.

He nodded foolishly, just as Wolf did. "A tree he was cutting fell on his head." he lied. "It was a long time ago."

The Isyaki suddenly seemed to lose interest.

"Here's a copper coin for you boy." he said, tossing a coin indifferently at his feet. Wolf made a big show of bending down to pick it up.

"It bears the likeness of her radiance, White Diamond upon it." he continued, ignoring Wolf's groveling. "Maybe it will bring you luck... or in your case, some wits." he said disdainfully.

"Thank the good man, Pinto." Wolf wheezed.

"Thankiew, Your Honour" Steven drawled again, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Wolf paid the Shwarean merchant for his spices and they swiftly left the shop.

When they were out of sight, Wolf gave Steven a regular Delmarvian penny in place of the Alabastian one.

"Hey," Steven said as he palmed the coin in his hand. "This isn't the coin he gave me." he remarked.

Wolf suddenly took him aside, but he did so as quietly as he could. They stepped out of the narrow street into an even narrower alleyway.

"You played a dangerous game, boy." said Wolf.

"You seemed not to want him to know who we were," Steven explained. "I wasn't sure why.. but you were doing it so I just followed you. Was I wrong?"

"No," Wolf said approvingly, "That was quick thinking. Very quick thinking Steven. You even fooled me."

This time Steven saw a smile, an actual smile, not a half smile or the beginnings of a smile, on his face. Steven felt warm inside.

"But unfortunately, it's time for us to leave." he turned away.

"Weren't we going to stay the night?"

"Things have changed. Come along, Steven. It's time we depart."

 _ **A/N : [** **Steven's first brush with the scourge of the East.**_

 _ **Story's picking up, but bear with me a while longer folks, there's still some preparation to be done, some kindling to be added, some friction to be created, before we can set this story ablaze.]**_


	8. In Hushed Whispers

Summary : **Steven asks about his origins. Wolf knows more than he lets on.**

 _ **A/N : [This chapter is short, but the plot thickens considerably.**_

 ** _I thought to speed up the process_** abit ** _for you guys so I can hasten the story._**  
 ** _Don't worry to those of you who like the slow burn. It's still_** good ** _CD_**.. ** _I think._**

 ** _Anyways, enjoy!_**

P.S. : ** _This chapter mentions Isyaki, and a new term, Marikeen. I'm not going to spoil what a Marek is just yet, but just know that they're a sect of Isyaki._**  
 ** _When I think of a specimen of Isyaki, I think of a Skyrim Redguard. Just giving you a mental image here.]_**

The horse was very tired, and he moved slowly at an ambling gait up the long hill out of Upper Geralt as the sun went down ahead of them.

"Why wouldn't you let me keep that penny, Mister Wolf?" Steven persisted. It had been nagging at him the whole time.

"There are many things in this world, Steven," Mister Wolf replied, "that seem to be one thing and are in fact another." He said grimly.

"I don't trust Alabastians, and I don't particularly trust Isyaki either. It would be just as well, I think, if you never had in your possession anything that bears the likeness of White Diamond." He continued.

"But the war between the West and the Alabastians has been over for over five hundred years now," Steven rebutted. "All men say so."

"Not all men," Wolf said. "Now take that robe from the back of the cart and cover up. Your Aunt would never forgive me should you catch a chill."

"I will if you think I should," Steven replied. "But I'm not a bit cold and I'm not at all sleepy. I'll keep you company as we go."

"That'll be a comfort, boy," Wolf said.

Steven leant back into his seat and turned behind to watch the last of the greystone houses of Upper Geralt disappear over the hill.

"Mister Wolf," said Steven after some time. "Did you know my mother and father?"

Wolf, who was reclining in his cart seat up until that point, eyes half-lidded, came to attention. Something flickered in his eyes just then.

"Yes," said Wolf quietly.

"My father's dead too, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid so."

Steven sighed deeply. "I thought so." he said. "I just wish I could've known them. Aunt Pearl says I was only a baby when-" He couldn't bring himself to say it. "I've tried to remember my mother, but... I never could."

"You were very small, Steven."

"What were they like?"

"They were... ordinary," said Wolf, scratching his beard."So ordinary you wouldn't look twice at either one of them."

Steven was offended by that remark. "Aunt Pearl said my mother was very beautiful." he objected.

"She was."

"Then how can you say she was ordinary?"

"She wasn't a prominent person, or an important one," Wolf said. "Neither was your father. Anyone who saw them thought they were just simple village people- a young man with a young wife and their baby- that's all anyone ever saw. That's all anyone was supposed to see."

"I don't understand."

"It was very complicated."

"What was my father like?"

"Hm. He was medium-sized." Wolf said. "Dark hair. A very serious young man. Everything I wasn't. I liked him."

"Did he love my mother?"

"Oh yes. More than anything."

"And me?"

"Of course."

"What kind of place did they live in?"

"It was a small place," Wolf said, suddenly far away. "a little village near the mountains, a long way from any main roads. They had a cottage at the end of the street. It was a small, solid little thing. Your father built it himself - he was a stonecutter."

"Aunt Pearl told me he was a lumberjack," Steven interjected.

But Wolf was far too enthralled to hear him.

"I used to stop by there from time to time, when I was around," he went on. Steven did his best to follow the story of his parents, but the old man's voice had taken on the quality of droning, describing the house, the village and the people who lived there. Steven listened, not even realising it when he fell asleep.

It must have been very late, almost on toward the dawn.

In a half-drowse, the boy felt himself lifted from the cart and carried up a flight of stairs.

"Bismuth..." thought Steven as he lifted his eyelids a little. But no, it was the old man.

He was surprisingly strong.

Aunt Pearl was there, of course, he didn't need to open his eyes to know that. There was a particular scent about her that he could have found even in a dark room.

"Just cover him up," he heard Mister Wolf whisper as he set him down. "Best not to wake him now."

"What happened?" Aunt Pearl asked, her voice as soft as the old man's.

"There's a damned Isyaki in town- at your spice merchant's. He asked questions and tried to give the boy an Alabaster penny."

"Isyaki? Here in Upper Geralt? Are you certain of this?"

"It's impossible to tell. Not even I can distinguish between Isyaki and one of the Marikeen. Not with any certainty anyway."

"What happened to the coin?"

"I was quick enough to get it. I gave the boy a Delmarvian penny instead. If our Isyaki was a Marek, we'll let him follow me. I'm sure I can give him several years of entertainment." said Wolf.

Steven imagined him smirking as he said that.

"So you'll be leaving then?"

Aunt Pearl's voice seemed... no, it was definitely sadness he detected in her voice.

"It's time," Wolf said. "Right now the boy is safe enough here, and I must be abroad. There are things in remote places I **must** see to. When Isyaki begin to appear in remote places, I begin to worry. We have a great responsibility and care placed upon us, Pearl, and we mustn't allow ourselves to become careless."

"Will you be gone long?" asked Aunt Pearl.

"Some years, I expect. There are many things I must look into and many people I'll have to see."

"I'll miss you," Aunt Pearl said softly.

The old man chuckled.

"Sentimentality? From you, Pearl?" he said dryly. "That's hardly in character."

"You know what I mean. I'm not suited for this task you and the others have given me. What do I know about the raising of small boys?"

"You're doing well," Wolf said. "Keep the boy close, and don't let his nature drive you into hysterics."

Steven clutched his blanket tighter as he felt the gaze of two sets of eyes on him.

"Be careful, Pearl. He lies like a champion."

"Steven?" Her voice was shocked.

"He lied to the Isyaki so well that even I was impressed."

" **Steven!?** " Her voice climbed an octave higher. He suppressed the urge to laugh.

"He's also started asking questions about his parents." Wolf said. "How much have you told him?"

"Very little. Only that they're dead."

"Let's leave it at that for now. There's no point in telling him things he isn't old enough to cope with... not yet."

Their voices went on, but Steven drifted off into sleep again, his rational mind telling him, over and over, that it was just a dream.

But the next morning when he awoke, Mister Wolf was gone.

 _ **A/N : [** **So whaddaya think of this whole debacle? Seems to me that there are secrets afoot :) ]**_


	9. Of Seasonal Curiosities

**Summary : Steven grows a little older, gets a little wiser, digs a little deeper.**

 _ **A/N : [ Okay. Enough build up. This next chapter, not this one, but this next one?**_

 _ **Ohohohohohohohohoohoho.**_  
 _ **Yes :) ]**_

 **THE SEASONS TURNED,** as seasons will. Summer ripened into autumn, autumns blaze fizzled out into winter. Winter begrudgingly relented to the promise of spring, and spring bloomed into summer again. With the turning of the seasons and so too the years, Steven imperceptibly grew older as well.

As he grew, so too did the other children- all that is, except poor Onion, who seemed destined to be short and skinny all his life. Pinto sprouted like a young tree, just as his brother Garbonzo did, and soon was just as big as he or any man on the farm was. Elyne and Ellie didn't grow so tall, but they developed in other ways which the boys began to find interesting.

In the early autumn, just before Steven's fourteenth birthday, he came very close to ending his career. In response to some primal urge all children have- given a pond and a handy supply of logs- they had built a raft that summer. The raft was neither very large nor was it particularly sturdy. It had the tendency to sink on one end if the weight was distributed unevenly across it, and an alarming habit of coming apart at unexpected moments.

Quite naturally, it was Steven who was aboard the raft-pretending to be a pirate captain-on that autumn day when the raft quite suddenly decided once and for all to revert to its original state. The bindings came all undone, and the logs began to go their separate ways.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

Was the only thought that ran through Steven's mind as he desperately tried to pole for shore, but his panic only hastened the disintegration of his vessel. In the end, the pirate captain found himself stranded, walking upon a sole floating plank, his arms windmilling wildly in an effort to regain some balance. His eyes, frantically searching for something of aid, swept up the marshy shore. Some distance up the slope behind his friends, his blood turned to ice as he saw-

The familiar figure of the man on the black horse. The man wore a dark robe, and his eyes burned as he stared, watching Steven's plight.

Then the spiteful log rolled under Steven's feet, and he toppled and fell with a resounding splash.

Steven's education, unfortunately, had not included instruction in the art of swimming; and while the pond wasn't really very deep, it was deep enough.

The bottom of the pond was very unpleasant, a kind of dark, weedy ooze inhabited by frogs, turtles and a singularly unsavoury looking black eel that slithered away snake-like when Steven plunged like a stone into the reeds. Steven gasped, struggled for air as he gulped in water, desperately thrashing his legs in some form of propelling motion to at least try to launch himself out of the water. He felt himself rising.

"Yes!" thought Steven. "I'm doing it! I'm doing it!"

Like a broaching whale, he rose from the depths, gasped a couple of quick, sputtering breaths and heard the screams of his playmates. The dark figure on the slope had not moved, and for a single blinding instant, every detail about that afternoon was etched on Steven's mind.

He observed that, although the rider was in the open under the full glare of the autumn sun, neither man nor horse cast any shadow. As his mind grappled with the impossibility, he sank once more into the inky black depths.

It occurred to him as he struggled amongst the weeds that, if he could launch himself upwards into the vicinity of the logs, he might be able to grab ahold of it and so remain afloat. He waved off a startled-looking tadpole and decided to try for his one chance at survival. He rose again, unfortunately, directly under the log. The blow on the top of his head filled his eyes with light and his ears with a roaring, ringing sound, and he sank, no longer struggling, back toward the weeds which seemed to reach out to grab him.

Then, he felt a hand circle around him just before he lost all vision.

Steven felt himself lifted roughly by the waist toward the surface and then towed back to shore with powerful, churning strokes. The man pulled the semi-conscious boy out onto the bank, turned him over and stepped on him several times to force the water out of his lungs.

Steven, his conscious mind half in and half out, thought to open his eyes and see the black man looming over him. Then he heard a voice call out:

"Enough! That's enough, Bismuth."

Steven relaxed. He tried to sit up, but the blood from the cut on his forehead from the log collision ran down into his eyes. He wiped the blood clear and strained his neck to look for any sign of the dark, shadowless rider, but just as mysteriously as he had appeared, he was gone. He made to stand, but his world suddenly spun around him, and he fainted.

When he awoke, he was in his own bed, his head wrapped in bandages.

Aunt Pearl stood beside his bed, her sky-blue eyes ablaze. "Steven you stupid, stupid boy!" she cried. "What on earth were you doing in that pond!?"

"Rafting," Steven mumbled, trying to make it sounds ordinary.

"Rafting?" she shrieked. "Rafting? Who gave you the permission to do that!?"

"Well-" Steven replied with uncertainty. "We just-"

"You just what?"

He looked at her helplessly.

And then with a low cry, she took him in her arms and crushed him to her almost suffocatingly.

Briefly, Steven considered telling her about the strange, shadowless figure that had watched his struggles in the pond, but the dry voice in his mind that sometimes spoke to him told him that this was not the time for that. He seemed to know that somehow the business between him and the man on the black horse would be something very private, and the time would come when they would face each other in some kind of contest of will or deed. To speak of it now would involve Aunt Pearl in the matter, and he did not want that.

He knew that the man was an enemy, though he knew not exactly why, and that alone was more than a little frightening to him. There was no question in his mind that Aunt Pearl would be able to deal with him, but if she did, Steven knew that he would lose something very personal and for some reason very important.

And so he said nothing.

"It wasn't anything at all that dangerous, Aunt Pearl," he said instead, rather lamely. "I was starting to get the idea of how to swim. I'd have been alright if I hadn't hit my head on that log."

"But you did hit your head," she pointed out.

"Well yes, but it wasn't that serious. I'd have been alright in a minute or two."

"Under the circumstances, I'm not sure you had a minute or two," she said bluntly.

"Well-" he faltered, but he decided to let it drop. Aunt Pearl stared hard back at him, her eyes lost in thought.

That occasion marked the end of his freedom for the entire autumn through. Aunt Pearl confined Steven to the scullery indefinitely, and as a result, he began to know every dent and scratch on every pot intimately. He began to run estimates. He must have washed each one twenty-one times a week. In a seeming orgy of messiness, Aunt Pearl could suddenly not even boil water without dirtying at least three of four pans, and Steven had to wash each one. He hated it and began to seriously entertain the idea of running away.

An autumn progressed, as autumns do, and the weather began to deteriorate. As it did though, the other children began to suffer varying degrees of confinement as well, so maybe his predicament wasn't so bad.

Pinto, of course, was never with them anymore, since his man's size had made him-even more than Steven- subject to more and more frequent labour. Steven would have felt bad, had he not his brother Garbonzo to keep him company. Ellie was a rather sickly girl and often stayed indoors.

When he could, however, he slipped away to join Onion and Elyne, but they no longer found as much entertainment in leaping into the hay or the endless game of tag in the stables as they used to. They had reached an age and size where adults quickly noticed such idleness and found tasks to occupy them. More often than not, the extent of their interaction now was simply to sit somewhere out of the way and simply talk- which was to say Steven and Elyne would just sit and listen to Onion's mad ramblings.

That small, quick boy, about as able to keep quiet as he could sit still, could seemingly talk for hours on end about a half-dozen raindrops, and his words tumbled over breathlessly as he fidgeted.

"Muhmuhmuhmuhmuhmuh muhmuhmuhmuh muhmuh muh? Muh muhmuhmuhmuh muh" Steven mouthed mockingly to Elyne.

She caught the gesture and stifled a quick laugh.

Steven cracked a half-smile at that, for more than one reason.

"What's that on your hand, Steven?" Elyne asked one rainy day, interrupting Onion's constant babbling.

Steven looked at the perfectly round, white patch on the palm of his right hand.

"I've noticed it too," said Onion, quickly changing subjects midsentence. "But you work in the kitchen, don't you Steven? It's probably a place where he burned himself when he was little- you know, reached out before anyone could stop him and put his hand on something really hot. I'll bet his Aunt Pearl got really angry about that, because she can get angrier faster than anyone I've ever seen, and she can really-"

"It's always been there," Steven said, tracing the mark on his palm with his left forefinger. He never really looked at it this closely before. Upon close inspection, he realised it had a certain light and faint silvery sheen to it.

"Maybe it's a birthmark" suggested Elyne.

"I'll bet that's it," Onion said quickly. "I saw a man once with his **BIG** purple one on the side of his face- one of those wagoneers that-"

Steven and Elyne shared a knowing look and not wanting to upset their old friend, they leaned back on the hay bale to return to their regularly scheduled programme.

That evening, after he'd gotten ready for bed, he asked Aunt Pearl about it.

"What's this mark, Aunt Pearl?" he asked, holding his hand out.

She looked up from where she was brushing her long, lustrous hair.

"It's nothing to worry about, Steven."

"I wasn't worried about it," he said. "I just wondered what it was. Elyne and Onion said it was a birthmark. Is that what it is?"

"Something like that," she said.

"Did either of my parents have the same kind of mark?"

"Your father did, Steven. It's been in your family for a long time."

A sudden, strange thought occurred to Steven. Without knowing why, he reached out and touched the white lock on his Aunt's brow.

"Is it like that white place in your hair?" He began.

Then the thought in his mind was suddenly dispelled as he felt something. Something old and ancient, like the window of a dusty attic that stirs up clouds of dust when opened for the first time in centuries.

At first, there was only the sense of uncountable years moving by like a vast sea of ponderously rolling clouds, and then, sharper than any knife, the feeling of endlessly repeated loss, of sorrow. Of faces old and young, some ordinary and some quite regal looking, fading into obscurity. Then he saw his own face, and behind it, no longer foolish or old, the face of Mister Wolf. But more than anything, there was a knowledge of an unearthly, inhuman power, the certainty of an unconquerable will, set free eons ago, and never to be chained again.

Aunt Pearl calmly regarded Steven for but a moment before brushing his hand aside. He felt the window in his mind shut again.

"Don't do that, Steven." she said.

" **What was that?** " He asked, burning with curiosity and excitement.

"A simple trick."

"Show me how!"

"Not yet, my baby." she said, taking his face between her hands. "No, no, not yet, you're not ready yet, Steven. Now go to sleep."

"You'll be here?" he asked, a little frightened now.

She kissed him on his brow, and begun humming a strange lullaby in a deep, melodious tone.

"Always."

 _ **A/N : [ Stand by for take-off my dudes :) ]**_


	10. The Winter of Our Discontent

**Summary :** **Some unexpected guests find their way to the farm.**

 _ **A / N : [ See end of chapter for notes ]**_

 **AFTER THAT,** not even Steven saw the mark on his palm very often. There suddenly seemed to be all kinds of dirty jobs for him to do which kept not only his hands, but the rest of him dirty as well.

Steven chalked it up to the approaching end-year celebrations'. The most important holiday in Delmarvia, and indeed in the rest of the Kingdoms of the West, was The New Year. It commemorated that day, eons before, when the seven Diamonds joined hands to create the world with a single thought.

The New Year Festival began in midwinter, and, because there was little to do on a farm like Alger's during that season, it had, by custom, become a splendid two-week celebration with feasts and gifts and decorations honouring the Diamonds. These last, of course, were a reflection of Alger's piety. Alger, though he was a good, simple man, had no illusions about just how widely his sentiments were shared by others on the farm. He still thought, however, that some outward show of devotional activity was in keeping with the season, and because he was such a good master, everyone on the farm chose to indulge him.

It was also at this season however, that Alger's married daughter, Helena, made their customary annual visit to remain on speaking terms with her father. Helena had no intention of endangering her inheritance rights by seeming inattention. Her visits, however, were a trial to Alger, who looked upon his daughter's somewhat overdressed and supercilious husband, a minor functionary in a commercial house in the capital city of Delmar, with ill-concealed contempt.

Their arrival, however, marked the beginning of the New Year Festival at Alger's Farm; so, while no one cared for them personally, their appearance was always greeted with a certain enthusiasm.

The weather that year, however, had been particularly foul- even for Delmarvia. The rains had settled in very early and was soon followed by a period of soggy snow- not the crisp, white powder which came later in the winter, but the gross, damp slush that was always half-melting and disgusting to wade through.

For Steven, whose duties in the kitchen prevented him from joining with his former playmates in their traditional pre-holiday get-together of anticipatory excitement, the approaching holiday seemed somehow flat and stale. He yearned back to the good old days and often sighed with regret and moped about the kitchen like a raven-haired storm cloud of doom.

Even the traditional decorations in the dining hall, where New Year activities often took place, seemed decidedly tacky to him that year. The fir boughs festooning the ceiling beams were somehow not as green, and the polished apples carefully tied to the boughs were smaller and not as red. He sighed some more and proceeded to wallow further in self-pity.

Aunt Pearl, however, was not impressed, and her attitude was firmly unsympathetic. She routinely checked his brow with her hand for signs of a fever and then dosed him with the foulest-tasting tonic she could concoct. Steven was more careful to hold his moping sessions in private and sigh less audibly after that. That dry, secret part of his mind informed him matter-of-factly that he was being ridiculous, but Steven didn't care. That voice in his mind seemed older and wiser than he, but it also seemed to want to take all the fun out of life. Not this time. This time Steven would continue moping however long he wanted, Diamonds be damned, and there was nothing the voice, or anyone else could say that would change his mind about that.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

On the morning of the New Year, an Isyaki and five Drakans appeared with a wagon outside the gate and asked to see Alger. Steven, who had long since learned that no one pays attention to a boy and that many interesting things can be learned by placing himself athwart a position where one could casually overhear conversations, busied himself with a small, unimportant chore at the gate.

The Isyaki, his face scarred much like the face of the one in Upper Geralt, sat importantly on the wagon seat, his chain-mail shirt clinking each time he made a movement. He wore a dark, black-hooded robe, and his sword was much in evidence. His eyes shifted constantly, taking in everything.

The Drakans, in muddy felt boots, lounged disinterestedly against the wagon, seemingly indifferent, if not apathetic, to the raw wind ripping across the snowy fields at their backs.

Alger, in his finest doublet-for it was the New Year after all-came across the yard, followed closely by Helena and her husband.

"Good morrow, friend," said Alger to the Isyaki. "A joyous New Year to you."

The Isyaki grunted. "You are, I take it, the farmer, Alger?" he asked in his thick, heavily accented voice.

"I am." Alger replied.

"I understand you have a goodly number of hams on hand-well cured."

"The pigs did do well this year," Alger answered modestly.

"I will buy them," the Isyaki announced, jingling his purse.

Alger bowed. "First thing _**tomorrow**_ morning," he said.

It was snowing hard, almost like a blizzard, but Steven could still see the faces of all involved staring at Alger incredulously from where he was at the gate.

"This is a pious household." Alger continued calmly. "Please do not offend the Diamonds by breaking the sanctity of the New Year."

"Father!" snapped Helena. "Don't be foolish! This noble merchant has come a long way to do business!"

"Not on this blessed day," Alger said stubbornly, his long face firm.

"In the city of Delmar," Einhorn said in his rather high-pitched nasally voice, "we do not let sentimentality interfere with business."

"Then you are welcome to conduct the transaction there if the need is so urgent," replied Alger flatly. "But this is Alger's Farm, and on Alger's Farm, we do not do business on New Year's Day."

" _Father!_ " Helena protested. "The noble merchant has gold! Gold, father, gold!"

"I will hear no more of this." Alger announced. He turned to the Isyaki. "You and your servants are welcome to join us in our celebration, friend," he said. "We can provide quarters for you and the promise of the finest dinner in all of Delmarvia and the opportunity to honour the Diamonds on this special day. No man is made poorer by attending to his religious obligations."

At the mention of dinner and the promise of lodging, the Isyaki's expression softened, if only slightly. Still, he persisted-

"We do not observe this holiday in Sivu-Isyak," said the scar-faced man coldly. "As the noble lady says, we have come a long way to do business and haven't the time to tarry. I'm sure there are other farmers about the district with the merchandise I require."

" _FATHER!?_ " Helena wailed.

"I know my neighbours," replied Alger evenly. "Be your need so dire, you are certainly welcome to try any of them, but you will not have much luck, I fear. The observance of this day is a firm tradition in the area."

The Isyaki pondered the old man's words carefully.

"It may be as you say." said he, finally. "I do not know this area as well as you do, but I trust that should I accept your invitation, you would not cheat me out of a fair deal at dawn's first light."

Steven thought it odd that someone offering hospitality to another would think to do that, but continued idling.

Alger bowed. "I place myself at your service at daybreak, should you so desire."

"Done, then." said the Isyaki, as he climbed down from his wagon.

In time, all was ready. The tables were loaded, the fires in the fireplaces burned brightly. Dozens of candles filled the hall with golden light, and torches flared in their rings on the stone pillars. Alger's people, all in their best clothes, filed into the hall, their mouths watering with anticipation.

When all were seated, Alger rose from his bench at the head of the centre table.

"Dear friends," he began, lifting his tankard. "I dedicate this feast to the Gods."

"The Gods," the people responded in unison, rising respectfully.

Alger drank briefly, and all followed suit.

"Hear me, O Great Diamonds above," he prayed. "Most humbly we thank you for the bounty of this fair world which you made on this day, and we dedicate ourselves to your service for yet another year."

He looked for a moment as though he were going to say more, but sat down instead. Alger always laboured for many hours over special prayers for occasions such as this, but the agony of speaking in public invariably erased the words so carefully prepared from his mind. His prayers, therefore, always ended up sounding very short, but in return, very sincere.

"Eat, dear friends," he instructed. "Do not let the food grow cold."

And so they ate. Helena and Einhorn, who join them all at this one meal only at Alger's insistence, devoted their conversational efforts to the only one in the room who was worthy of their attention.

"I have long thought to visit Sivu-Isyak." Einhorn stated rather pompously. "Don't you agree, friend merchant, that greater contact between east and west is the way to overcome those mutual suspicions which have so marred our relationships in the past?"

"We Isyaki prefer to keep to ourselves," the Isyaki replied curtly.

"But you are here, friend," Einhorn pointed out. "Does that not prove that greater contact might prove beneficial?"

"I am here as a duty. I don't visit here out of preference."

He looked around the room before addressing Alger directly.

"Are these then all of your people?" he asked Alger.

"Every soul." replied Alger.

"Hmmm. I was led to believe there was an old man here-with white hair and beard."

"Not here, friend," Alger said.

If he recognised the danger behind the question, his eyes did not show it.

"I myself am the oldest here, and as you can see, my hair is far from white." Alger continued.

"One of my countrymen met with such a one some years ago," the Isyaki pressed. "He was accompanied by a boy-"

Aunt Pearl, who stood as always at the back of the hall to oversee the passage of food from the kitchen, turned suddenly to regard the conversation. Steven, still eating, knew this from the electricity he felt wash over him. It settled squarely on the Isyaki.

"-A Flaxen child, by the name.. Pinto, I believe."

Steven bent forward into his plate, pretending to make a show of eating without seeming too odd. He knew that Alger's next words were pivotal in what this strange man would do next.

"We do have a boy named Pinto here," Alger said. "That tall lad over by the end of the table there," he said, pointing to Pinto.

"No," said the Isyaki, looking hard at him. "That wasn't the boy that was described to me."

"It's not an uncommon name among the Flax you know," Alger said. "Quite probably your friend met a pair from another farm."

"That must be it," the Isyaki said, seeming to dismiss the affair.

Steven felt a huge weight lifted from atop his chest, but he still felt a slight crackling tension in the air.

"This ham," the Isyaki continued, "Is absolutely divine."

"Oh no, don't you be saying that in vain in this house." Alger joked.

"Oh, but it is! Are the ones in your smokehouse of similar quality?"

"Nice try, but you cannot so easily trick _me_ into talking business on this day." Alger laughed.

The Isyaki smiled briefly. A peculiar expression for such a scarred face.

"One can always try," he said. "I would however, like to compliment your cook."

"Ah," Alger said. "Mistress Pearl! A compliment for you! Our friend from Sivu-Isyak finds your cooking much to his liking!"

"I thank him for his compliment," Aunt Pearl replied, somewhat coldly.

The Isyaki then turned to regard the voice. He looked at her for but a moment, then his eyes widened slightly, as if in recognition.

"A noble meal, great lady," he said, even bowing slightly in her direction. "Your kitchen is a place of magic."

"No," she replied, drawing herself up tall and lofty. "Cooking is an _art_ that many with the patience and time to do so may learn. _Magic_ is quite something else."

"But magic is also an art, great lady," the Isyaki said.

Steven felt the crackling tension intensify and knew instinctively that this exchange was not at all what it seemed. It was less a conversation than it was a skirmish, and Aunt Pearl was fiercely pressing the attack.

"There are many who would **think** so," said Aunt Pearl, "but true magic comes from within, and is not the result of _cheap sleights_ which trick the eye."

The Isyaki stared at her, his face hardening, as she evenly returned his gaze, her steely eyes glittering icy blue. To Steven, it seemed as though something was passing invisibly through the air, a kind of wordless challenge that was left hanging in open defiance of the man's presence here.

And then, the Isyaki turned away, almost as if fearing to take it up.

When the meal was over, it came time for the observance of the simple pageant that marked the New Year's Festival.

Seven of the older farmhands who slipped away earlier appeared in the doorway wearing the long, hooded robes and carefully carved and painted masks which represented the faces of the Diamonds. With a slow step, the robed and masked figures paced into the hall and lined up at the foot of the table where Alger sat. Then each, in turn, spoke a piece which identified the Diamond he represented.

"I am Grey Diamond," said the old farmer's voice from behind the first mask. "The God who dwells alone, and I command this world to be."

"I am Pink Diamond," came another familiar voice, "The Lion God of the Sangrians, and I command this world to be."

And so it went down the line, Orange, Green, Blue, Yellow and finally the last figure, which, unlike the others, was robed in black and her mask made of steel instead of wood.

"I am White Diamond," Bismuth's voice came hollowly from behind the mask, "Overlord of the Alabastians, and I command this world to be."

A movement caught Steven's eye, and he gave it a cursory glance. The Isyaki had covered his face with his hands in a strange, almost ceremonial gesture. Beyond him, at the far table, the five Drakans were ashen-faced and trembling.

The seven figures at the foot of Alger's table joined their hands.

"We are the Diamonds, and we command this world to be."

"Hearken unto the words of the Gods," Alger exclaimed. "Welcome are the Gods in the house of Alger."

"The blessing of the Gods be upon the house of Alger," intoned the seven, "and upon all his company."

And then, slowly as they had come, they paced from the hall.

And finally came the gifts. There was much excitement all around for this part of the celebration, for all the gifts were _all_ from Alger, and the good farmer struggled long each year to provide the most suitable gift for each of his people. New tunic and gowns and shoes abounded, but Steven this year was nearly overwhelmed when he opened a smallish, cloth-wrapped bundle and found a simple, neat, well-sheathed dagger.

"You'll find it to be perfectly balanced, Steven." Bismuth beamed. "As all things should be."

Starry-eyed, he unsheathed it and tested the weight. It was light yet firm, the blade was so well-polished it glinted in the firelight, and when Steven stabbed it with a leaf, it was as if he was slicing into the fabric of the air itself. He crowed in delight.

Other parties privy to the boy's little celebration, however, were not so keen.

"He's nearly a man," Alger calmly explained in response to Aunt Pearl's rising ire. "And a man always has need of a good knife!"

As if to illustrate the point, Steven immediately tested the edge of his gift and managed to promptly cut his finger.

"It was inevitable, I suppose." said Aunt Pearl in concession. Though whether she was speaking about the cut or the gift itself was not entirely clear.

The Isyaki bought his hams the next morning, and he departed with the five Drakans in tow. A few days later, to Alger's relief, his daughter Helena and the haughty Einhorn left on their return journey to Delmar, and Alger's Farm returned to normal.

The winter plodded on. The snows came and went, and spring returned, as it always does. The only thing which made that spring any different was the arrival of Myr, the new hand. One of the younger farmers had married and rented a small nearby croft and left, laden down with practical gifts and good advice from Alger to begin life as a married man. Myr was hired to replace him.

Steven found Myr to be a singularly unattractive addition to the farm. The man's tunic and hose were patched and stained, and his black hair and scraggly beard were unkempt, and not in a charming way as Mister Wolf's had been. He was a sour, solitary man, and he wasn't too clean either. His eyes were strange in that while one stared in the direction he was looking, the other seemed to have a mind of its own as to where it wanted to look. It made Steven's skin crawl. Above all, he seemed to carry with him a sort of reek, acrid like that of stale sweat which wafted from his vicinity like a miasma. After a few, honest-to-goodness attempts at trying to befriend him, Steven gave up altogether and avoided him.

Steven had other things to occupy his time during that spring and the summer after.

Though he had considered her to be more an inconvenience than a genuine playmate, quite suddenly he began to notice Elyne. He had always known that she was pretty, but until that particular season that fact had been unimportant, and he had much preferred the company of Pinto and Onion. Now matters had changed. He noticed that the other two boys had begun to pay attention to her as well, and for the first time, he began to feel the stirrings of jealousy.

Elyne of course, flirted outrageously with all three of them, and positively glowed when they glared at each other in her presence. Pinto's duties kept him in the field most of the time, but Onion was a serious worry to Steven. He became quite nervous and frequently found excuses to go about the compound to ascertain that Onion and Elyne were not in fact, spending time together.

His own campaign was charmingly simple- he resorted to bribery. Elyne, like all the other girls, was fond of sweets, and having access to the entire kitchen meant Steven had the high ground. In time, they had worked out an arrangement, one that naturally, benefited Elyne disproportionately.

Steven would steal sweets from the kitchen for his sunny-haired playmate, and in return, she would let him kiss her.

It all went swimmingly, with Steven beginning to tease her for more in return for the sweets she so craved. Perhaps it might have gone further had Aunt Pearl not caught them in the midst of one such exchange one bright summer afternoon in the seclusion of a nondescript hay barn.

"That's quite enough of that, young man," she announced firmly from the doorway.

Steven jumped guiltily away from Elyne.

"I've got something in my eye, ma'am," lied Elyne shyly. "Steven was trying to get it out for me."

Steven, standing adjacent to her, stood blushing furiously.

"Really?" Aunt Pearl remarked. "How interesting. Come with me, Steven."

"I-" he started.

" _Now_ , Steven."

And that was the end of that. Steven's time thereafter was totally occupied in the kitchen, and Aunt Pearl's eyes seemed to be on him at every waking moment. He mooned about a great deal and worried desperately about Onion, who now seemed hatefully smug. But Aunt Pearl remained watchful, and so Steven remained in the kitchen.

 _ **A / N : [ Someone we know will make a reappearance in the next chapter :) ]**_


	11. Blue Gems, Red Fields

**Summary :** **Plans for departure, and a campfire story to chill the bones.**

 ** _A / N : [ I've finally gotten around to shaking things up a bit :)_**

 _ **Also, a teaser at our favourite ocean ma'am. ]**_

 **IN MIDAUTUMN** that year, when the leaves had turned and the wind had showered them down from the trees like red and gold snow, when evenings were chill and the smoke from the chimneys at Alger's Farm rose straight and blue toward the first cold stars in a purpling sky, Wolf returned.

He came up the road on one gusty afternoon under a lowering red autumn sky with the new-fallen leaves tumbling about him and his great, dark cloak whipping in the wind.

Steven, who had been dumping kitchen slops to the pigs, saw his approach and practically bolted out the gate, rushing to meet him. The old man seemed travel-worn and tired, and his face under his graying hood was grim. His usual demeanour of happy-go-lucky cheerfulness had been replaced by a sombre mood that Steven had never seen before.

"Shtu-roll," Wolf said wearily by way of greeting. "You've grown, I see."

"It's been five years," Steven said

"Has it been so long?"

Steven nodded, an exaggerated frown upon his features. Wolf chuckled quietly as Steven fell into step beside him.

"Is everyone well?" Wolf asked.

"Oh yes," Steven replied. "Everything here's been the same except for... OH! Glenn got married and moved away, and the old brown cow died last summer."

"I remember the cow," Wolf said offhandedly. Then he said,

"I must speak with Aunt Pearl, boy. With all haste."

"She's not in a very good mood today," Steven warned. "it might be better if you rested in one of the barns. I can sneak some food and drink to you in a bit."

"We'll have to chance her mood, Steven." Wolf said, uncharacteristically daring.

Steven gulped. While Wolf never backed away from a good game of chance, he was, like all men with half a brain stem, careful to never anger Aunt Pearl.

This was serious.

* * *

They entered the gate and crossed the courtyard to the kitchen door.

Aunt Pearl was waiting.

"You again?" said she tartly, her hands on her hips and a signature wry smile plastered across her face. "My kitchen still hasn't recovered from your last visit."

"Nonsense, Pearl, it's been five years," Wolf replied, returning the smile.

Then he did something very strange.

Steven saw his arms fold inward in a cross-formation, like an X, with his hands bent inwards toward each other. He held the position for only the briefest of moments, but in that moment, he felt the weight of five years of knowledge rush upon an ethereal bridge between minds.

Aunt Pearl's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and her face became grim.

"How do you-" she started, then caught herself.

"Steven," she said sharply, "I need some carrots. There are still some in the ground at the far end of the kitchen garden. Take a spade and fetch me some."

"But-" Steven protested, but then, warned by the expression forming on her face, left quickly. He got a spade and pail from a nearby shed, and then loitered, out of sight, near the kitchen door.

Eavesdropping, of course, was not a nice habit and was considered one of the worst forms of bad manners in Delmarvia, but Steven had long since concluded that whenever he had to be sent away, the conversation was **bound** to be very interesting, and would probably rather **intimately** concern him. He had wrestled briefly with his conscience about it before; but, since he really saw no harm in the practice- as long as he didn't regret anything he heard -conscience had been overruled by curiosity.

Steven's ears were very sharp, but it took him a moment or two to separate the two familiar voices from the ambient noises of the kitchen.

* * *

"He will not leave you a trail," Aunt Pearl was saying.

"He doesn't have to," Wolf replied. "The thing itself will make its trail known to me. I can follow it as easily as a fox sniffs out a rabbit."

"Where will he take it?" she asked.

"Who can say? His mind is closed to me. My guess is he'll go north to Wal'kofte. That's the shortest route to Vaas-Indrak. He'll know I'll be after him, and he'll want to cross into Alabastian land as soon as possible. His theft will not be complete so long as he stays in the West."

"When did it happen?"

"Four weeks ago."

"He could already be in Alabastia!"

"That's not as likely as you think, Pearl. The distances are long. But I still need to find him, and for that, I need your help."

"But how can I leave?" Aunt Pearl said, a hint of incredulity creeping into her voice. "He's still just a baby! I have to watch over him!"

Steven crept closer to the door. His curiosity unbearably intense now.

"The boy will be safe enough here!" Wolf asserted. "This is an urgent matter."

"No." Aunt Pearl contradicted. "Even this place isn't safe. Last Festival, five Drakans and an Isyaki came here. He posed as a merchant, but he asked a few too many questions- about an old man and a boy named Pinto who had been seen in Upper Geralt some years ago. He also may have recognised me."

"It's more serious than we thought then." Wolf now pondered thoughtfully. "We have to move the boy then. We'll leave him with friends elsewhere."

"No," Aunt Pearl began again.

"Oh Diamonds, Pearl..."

"If I go with you, he'll have to come with. He's reaching an age where he must be under constant scrutiny."

"Don't be absurd."

Steven was stunned. Nobody said that to Aunt Pearl.

"It's my decision to make." said Aunt Pearl crisply. "We all agreed he was to be in my care until he was grown. I won't go unless he goes with me."

Steven's heart leaped.

"Pearl," Wolf said sharply. "think about where we have to go. You cannot deliver the boy into their hands."

"He'd be safer in Sivu-Isyak or even in, Diamonds forgive me, Noxus itself than he would be here without my eyes on him." Aunt Pearl said. "Last spring I caught him in the barn with a girl about his own age! As I said, he needs watching."

Wolf laughed. "Is that all? You worry too much about such things, Pearl."

"How would you like it if we came back and we found him married and soon to become a father?" Aunt Pearl demanded, her tone positively acidic.

"He'd make an excellent farmer, and what would it matter if we had to wait a hundred more years for the circumstances to be right again?" she spat.

"Surely it hasn't gone that far. They're only children."

"You're blind, Old Wolf." Aunt Pearl remarked. "This is back-country Delmarvia, and the boy has been raised to do the honourable thing. The girl is a bright-eyed minx who's maturing far too rapidly for my comfort. Right now, charming little Elyne is a far greater danger than any Isyaki could ever be. Either the boy comes, or I don't. You have your responsibilities, I have mine."

"There's no point arguing about it," Wolf said in exasperation. "If it has to be this way, so be it."

Steven was choked to the brim with excitement.

 **He was going on a mission! With Aunt Pearl and Wolf!**

He felt a momentary pang of regret leaving Elyne behind. He turned to look up exultantly at the clouds scuttling across the evening sky. He screamed a silent thanks to any and all the Diamonds who were watching this. Because of that, he failed to notice Aunt Pearl approach from right in front of him.

"As I recall, Steven," Aunt Pearl said, making him jump. "The garden lies beyond the far wall over there." She pointed.

Steven started guiltily.

"How is it that the carrots remain undug?" she demanded.

"I had to look for the spade..." Steven said unconvincingly.

"Really? I see that you found it, however." Her eyebrows arched dangerously.

"Only just now." said he, sheepishly.

"Splendid. Carrots, Steven- now!"

Steven grabbed his pail and ran.

* * *

It was just turning to dusk when Steven returned, and he saw Aunt Pearl mounting the steps that led to Alger's quarters. He might have followed her to listen, but a faint movement in the dark doorway of one of the sheds made him step instead into the shadow of the gate. A furtive figure moved from the shed to the foot of the stairs Aunt Pearl had just climbed and silently crept up the stairs as soon as she went in Alger's door.

The light was fading, and Steven could not see who exactly followed his Aunt. He set down his pail and, grasping the spade like a weapon, hurried quickly around the inner court, keeping to the shadows.

There came a sound of a movement inside the chambers upstairs, and the figure at the door scampered down the steps quickly and out of sight. As the figure passed him, Steven caught the distinct stench of stale, musty clothing and rank sweat.

What business would Myr have with Aunt Pearl?

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Steven heard his Aunt's voice.

"I'm sorry Alger, but it's a family matter, and I must leave immediately."

"I would pay you more, Pearl." Alger's voice was almost breaking.

"Money has nothing to do with it," Aunt Pearl replied. "Oh, Alger, dear. You're such a good man. You and your farm has been a haven to me when I needed one. And I am grateful to you- more than you can know -but I must leave."

"Perhaps when this family business is over, you can come back?" Alger almost pleaded.

"No Alger," she said. "I'm afraid not."

"We'll miss you Pearl," Alger said, tears pooling.

"And I will miss you, dear Alger. I've never met a better-hearted man. I'd take it kindly if you wouldn't mention my leaving until I was gone. I'm not fond of explanations," Aunt Pearl explained.

"Or sentimental goodbyes..." she said softly.

"Whatever you wish, Pearl," Alger replied, trying to stifle what was clearly meant to be a sob.

"Don't be so mournful, old friend," Aunt Pearl said, trying to be light-hearted about it. "My helpers are just as well-trained as I am! Their cooking will be the same as mine! Your stomach will never notice the difference."

"But my heart will," Alger tearfully sobbed, dropping to his knees at the doorway.

"Oh, Alger..." she knelt beside him, a soft hand on his shoulder. "Don't be like that," she sighed.

"I still have supper to see to," she finished.

Steven moved quickly away from the shadows he hid in. Troubled, he put his spade back in the shed and fetched the pail of carrots he had left sitting by the gate.

To reveal to his Aunt that he had seen Myr by the door would raise questions about his own activities that he would prefer not to answer. In all probability, Myr was just curious like he was, and there was nothing menacing or ominous about that. To observe the unsavoury Myr duplicating his own seemingly harmless pastime, however, made Steven feel quite uncomfortable, even ashamed of himself.

* * *

Although Steven was much too excited to eat, supper that evening was by far the best he had ever tasted. Steven covertly watched the sour-faced Myr, but the man showed no outward sign of having in any way been changed by the conversation he had gone through so much trouble to overhear.

When supper was over, as was always the case when he was on the farm, Mister Wolf was prevailed upon to tell a story.

Wolf rose and stood for a moment deep in thought as the wind moaned in the chimney and the torches flickered in their rings on the pillars in the hall.

"As all men know," he began, "the Lazulites are no more, and the spirit of Blue Diamond weeps alone in the wilderness and wails among the now moss-grown ruins of Lanzalore. But also, as all men know, the hills and streams of Lanzalore were heavy with fine, yellow gold. That gold, of course, was the destruction of the Lazuli. When a certain neighbouring empire became aware of that gold, the temptation became too great, and the result- as it almost always is when gold is at issue between kingdoms- was war. The pretext for the war was the lamentable fact that the Lazulites were witches. While this habit is distasteful amongst civilised men, had there not been gold in Lanzalore, it would have been overlooked."

"The war, however, was inevitable, and all the Lazulites were slain. But the spirit of Blue Diamond and the ghosts of all the slaughtered Lazuli remained in Lanzalore, as those who went into that haunted kingdom soon discovered."

"Now it chanced to happen that about that time there lived in the hamlet of Auckney in southern Delmarvia three adventuresome men and, hearing of all that gold, resolved to journey down to Lanzalore to claim their share of it. The men, as I said, were adventurous and bold, and they scoffed at the tales of ghosts."

"Their journey was long, for it is many hundreds of leagues from Auckney to the upper reaches of Lanzalore, but the smell of gold drew them on. And so it happened, one dark and stormy night, that they crept into Lanzalore past the patrols which had been set to turn back those such as they. That nearby empire, having gone through such lengths and expense and inconvenience of war, was naturally quite reluctant to share the gold with anyone who passed by."

"Through the night they crept, burning with lust for gold. The Spirit of Blue wailed about them, but they were brave men and not afraid of spirits- and besides, they told each other, the sound was not truly from a spirit, but from the moaning of wind in the trees."

"As dim and misty morning seeped amongst the hills, they could hear, not far away, the sound of rushing river. As all men know, gold is most easily found deposited along the banks of rivers, and so they made quickly toward that sound."

"Then one of them chanced to look down in the dim light, and behold, the ground at his feet was strewn with gold, lumps and chunks galore. Overcome with greed, he remained silent and loitered until his brothers went out of sight, then fell to his knees and started gathering gold as a child might pick up flowers. Then, he heard a sound behind him, and he turned."

"What he saw then is best not to say. Dropping all his gold, he bolted."

"Now river had cut through a ravine just about there, and his two companions were amazed to see him run off the edge of that ravine and even continue to run as he fell, his legs churning insubstantial air. Then they turned, and they saw what had been pursuing him."

"One went quite mad and leapt with a despairing cry into the same ravine which had just claimed his brother, but the third adventurer, the bravest and most courageous of all, told himself that no ghost could possibly harm a living man and stood his ground. That of course, was the worst mistake of all. The ghosts encircled him as he stood bravely, certain that they could not harm him."

Mister Wolf paused briefly and took a swig of his tankard.

"And then," the old storyteller continued, "because even ghosts can become hungry, they divided him up and consumed him."

Steven's hair stood on end at the shocking conclusion to the gory tale, and he could sense others at the table shuddering. It was not at all what anyone had expected to hear that night.

Myr, seated near the fire, suddenly stood up.

"I've never seen a ghost," he drawled sourly, "nor ever met anyone who had, and I for one do not believe in any kind of magic or sorcery or such childishness."

And he stood up and stamped out of the hall as though the story had been some kind of personal insult. Steven found it most odd, indeed.


	12. Into The Cold Dark

**Summary :** **Steven realises there is more to his life than meets the eye, and is whisked upon a journey the likes of which he had never seen before.**

 _ **A/N : [** **Here it is friends. The show is finally on the road.**_

 _ **This is the chapter you've been waiting for.]**_

 **LATER IN THE KITCHEN** , while Aunt Pearl was cleaning up and Wolf lounged against one of the workbenches with a tankard of beer in hand, Steven's struggle with his conscience finally came into the open. That dry, interior voice of his had finally succeeded in convincing him, most pointedly, that concealing what he knew about Myr was not only just foolish, but possibly dangerous as well.

Steven set down the pot he was scrubbing and crossed over to where they were.

"It might not be... important," he began carefully, "but this afternoon, when I was coming back from the garden, I saw Myr following you, Aunt Pearl."

Aunt Pearl, who had been calmly dusting off the top shelves until that point, turned so sharply that the frills of her dress kicked up the rest of the dust into a small cloud behind her. Wolf set down his tankard.

"Go on, Steven," said Wolf.

"It was when you went up to talk with Farmer Alger," Steven explained. "He'd waited until you'd gone up on the stairs and Farmer Alger had let you in. Then he sneaked up and listened at the door. I saw him up there when I went to put the spade away."

As his recount ended, an uneasy silence settled between the three of them.

Finally, Wolf spoke. "How long has this man Myr been at the farm?" he asked, frowning.

"He came just last spring," Steven said. "After Glenn got married and moved away."

"And the Isyaki merchant was here last Festivale some months before?"

Aunt Pearl turned sharply. "You don't think-" She did not finish.

"I think it wouldn't be a bad idea if I were to step around and have a few words with our friend Myr," Wolf said menacingly. "Do you know where his room is, Steven?"

Steven nodded, his heart suddenly racing.

"Show me." Wolf moved away from the table where he was lounging, and his step was no longer that of an old man.

It was as if the years fell suddenly away from him, as though time itself feared to hinder him.

"Be careful," warned Aunt Pearl.

Wolf chuckled, a chilling, frosty sound, charged with intent.

"I'm always careful. You should know that by now."

Steven quickly led Wolf out into the yard and around the far end where the steps mounted to the gallery that led to the rooms of the farmhands. They went up, their soft leather boots making no sound upon the stone.

"Down here," Steven whispered, without knowing exactly why he was whispering.

Wolf nodded, and they went quietly down the dark gallery.

"Here," Steven whispered, stopping.

"Step back," Wolf breathed. He touched the door with his fingertips.

"Is it locked?" Steven asked.

"Not anymore," Wolf said softly. He put his hand to the latch, there was a click, and the door swung open. Wolf stepped inside with Steven close behind.

It was totally dark in the room, and the sour stink of Myr's unwashed clothes hung in the air.

"He's not here," Wolf said in a normal tone. He fumbled with something at his belt and there was the scrape of flint against steel and a flare of sparks. A wisp of frayed rope caught the sparks and began to glow. Wolf blew on the spark for a second, and it flared to life. He raised the burning wisp over his head and looked around the empty room.

The floor and bed were littered with rumpled clothes and personal belongings. Steven knew instantly that this was not simple untidiness, but rather the telltale signs of a hasty departure, and again, he did not know exactly how he knew.

Wolf stood for a moment, holding his little torch. His face seemed somehow empty, as though his mind was absent his body, searching for something.

"The stables," he said sharply. "Quickly, boy!"

Steven turned and dashed from the room with Wolf close behind. The burning wisp of rope drifted down into the yard, illuminating it briefly before Wolf discarded it over the railing as he ran.

* * *

There was a light in the stable. It was dim, partially covered, but the faint beams shone through the weathered cracks in the door. The horses were stirring uneasily.

"Stay clear, boy," Wolf said as he jerked the stable door open.

Myr was inside, struggling to saddle a horse that was shying away from his rank stench.

"Leaving so soon, Myr?" Wolf asked, stepping into the doorway with his arms crossed.

Myr turned quickly, crouched and with a snarl on his unshaven face. His off-centre eye gleamed whitely in the half-muffled light of the lantern hanging from a peg on one of the stalls, and his broken teeth shone behind his pulled-back lips.

"A strange hour for a journey," Wolf dryly remarked.

"Don't interfere with me, old man," Myr said, his tone menacing. "You'll regret it."

"I've regretted many things in my life," Wolf said. "I doubt one more will make all that much difference."

"I warned you," Myr snarled, and his hand dove beneath his cloak and emerged with a dirty, rust-covered sword.

"Go ahead. **Make my day**." Wolf said in a tone of overwhelming contempt.

Steven, however, at the first flash of the sword, whipped his hand to his belt and withdrew his dagger, stepping out in front of the old man.

"Get back boy!" Wolf barked.

But Steven had already lunged forward, his bright dagger thrust in front of him. Later, when he had time to consider, he could not have explained the sudden flash of bravery... or stupidity. Some deep instinct seemed to take over.

"Steven!" Wolf said, "Get out of the way!"

"All the better," Myr said, raising his sword.

And then, Bismuth was there. He appeared from nowhere out of the shadows, snatched up an ox yoke and smacked the sword from Myr's hand. Myr turned on him, enraged, and Bismuth's second blow took the cast-eyed man in the ribs. The blow knocked the breath out of Myr's lungs in an audible whoosh, and he collapsed, writhing and gasping onto the straw-littered floor.

"Shame on you, Steven," Bismuth said reproachfully. "I didn't make that knife of yours for this kind of thing."

"He was going to kill Mister Wolf!" Steven protested.

"Never mind that," Wolf said, bending over the gasping man. He searched Myr roughly and pulled a jingling purse from under the stained tunic. He carried the purse to where the lantern was near the wall and opened it.

"That's mine," Myr gasped, trying to rise. Bismuth raised the ox yoke threateningly, and Myr sank back down again.

"That's a sizeable sum for any ordinary farmhand to have, friend Myr," Wolf said, pouring the jingling coins from the purse into his hand. "How came you by it?"

Myr glared at him.

Steven's eyes grew wide at the sight of the coins. He had never seen gold before.

"You don't really have to answer, friend Myr," Wolf continued, examining one of the coins. "Your gold speaks for itself."

He dumped the coins back into the purse and tossed the small leather pouch back onto the floor beside the man. Myr quickly grabbed it and stowed it back inside his tunic.

"I'll have to tell Alger of this," Bismuth began.

"No," Wolf said.

"It's a serious matter. A bit of wrestling or a few blows exchanged is one thing, but the drawing of weapons is quite another."

"There's no time for all of that," Wolf said, taking a harness strap from a peg on the wall. "Bind his hands behind him, and we'll put him in one of the grain bins. Someone will find him in the morning."

Bismuth stared at him.

"Trust me, o good Bismuth," Wolf said. "The matter is urgent. Tie him and hide him someplace; then come to the kitchen. Come with me, Steven."

And with that, they turned and left the stable.

* * *

Aunt Pearl was nervously pacing in the kitchen by the time they returned.

"Well?" she demanded.

"He was attempting to leave," Wolf said. "We stopped him."

"Did you-?" she left it hanging.

"No. He drew a sword, but Bismuth chanced to be nearby and knocked the truculence out of him. The intervention was timely. Your cub here was about to be a hero. That little dagger of his is a pretty thing, but really not much use against a sword."

Steven's head turned to his Aunt immediately to at least try and explain himself, only to be instantly silenced into submission by the most frightfully intense, blazing pair of eyes he had ever seen.

"There's no time for that," Wolf hissed, retrieving the tankard he had set down before leaving the kitchen.

"Myr had a pouchful of good red Alabastian gold. The Isyaki have set eyes to watching this place. I'd wanted to make our journey secret, but since we're already being watched, there's no point in that now. Gather what you and the boy will need. I want a few leagues between us and Myr before he manages to free himself. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for Isyaki every place I go."

Bismuth, who had come into the kitchen sometime earlier but had stood motionless at the doorway, suddenly spoke:

"Things aren't what they seem here," he started slowly. "What manner of folk are you really, and how is it that you have such dangerous enemies?"

"That is a long story, good Bismuth," Wolf said, "but I'm afraid there's no time to tell it now. Make our apologies to Alger, and see if you can't detain Myr for a good day or so. I'd like our trail to be quite cold before he or his friends try to find it."

"I'm afraid someone else is going to have to do that, friend Wolf," Bismuth said slowly. "Now I'm not certain what all this is about, but I know for a fact that there's danger involved in it. It appears that I will have to go with you- at least until I've gotten you safely away from here."

Aunt Pearl suddenly burst into laughter. "You, Bismuth? You mean to protect **us**?"

He drew himself up. "I'm sorry, Mistress Pearl," he said. "I will not permit you to go unescorted."

"Will not permit? " she said incredulously.

"Very well," Wolf said, a sly look on his face now.

"Have you finally taken leave of your senses?" Aunt Pearl demanded, turning now on Wolf.

"Bismuth has shown himself to be a useful friend," Wolf said. "If nothing else, he'll give me someone to talk with along the way. Your tongue has only grown sharper with the years, Pearl, and I don't relish the idea of a hundred leagues or more with nothing but abuse for companionship."

"I see that you've finally slipped into your dotage, Old Wolf." she spat, acid dripping from every syllable.

"This is exactly what I mean," Wolf replied dryly. "Now gather a few things and let us be off from here. The night is passing rapidly."

Aunt Pearl, her glare deathly cold, turned upon her heel then stormed out of the kitchen.

"I'll have to fetch some things too," Bismuth said. He turned and went out into the gusty night.

Steven's mind whirled. Everything was happening way too fast.

"Afraid, boy?" Wolf asked.

"Well-" Steven said. "It's just that I don't understand. I don't understand anything of what's happening at all. First we went after Myr, then we cornered him in the stables, and then he pulled a sword and then now maybe he's an Isyaki and now Bismuth's coming too and-"

Wolf placed a finger upon his flapping lips, silencing Steven. Steven's eyes met his.

"You will in time, Steven," Wolf murmured softly. "For now, it's better that you don't. There's a danger in what we're doing, but not all that great a danger. Your Aunt and I- and now, good Bismuth, of course- will see that no harm comes to you. Now help me in the pantry."

And with that, Wolf took a lantern and went to the back of the kitchen, where he proceeded to raid the cabinets for a wide variety of food, taking a good amount, but not too much for it to look suspicious the following morning. Steven helped him in doing so, and he felt a strange, familiar ease in performing this activity with Wolf, as he had so many times before.

Trapped in a moment of familiarity, Steven laughed away the absurdity of it all, and the impending feeling that life as he knew it was about to be torn right out of the ground with him.

* * *

It was nearly midnight, as closely as Steven could tell, when they quietly left the kitchen and crossed the dark courtyard. The faint creak of the gate as Bismuth swung it open seemed enormously loud.

As they passed through the gate, Steven felt a momentary pang. Alger's farm had been the only home he had ever known. He was leaving now, perhaps forever, and such things carried great weight.

A Boy with No Home, a boy On the Run.

He felt an even sharper pang at the memory of Elyne. The thought of Onion and Elyne together in the barn almost made him want to give the whole thing up altogether, but it was far too late now.

Beyond the protection of the buildings, Steven realised how chill the midnight air was, and how the gusty wind nipped and licked at his sides. He drew his cloak close about him. Heavy clouds covered the moon, making the road seem only slightly less dark than the surrounding fields.

It was cold and lonely and more than a little frightening. He huddled close to Aunt Pearl.

At the top of their first hill, he stopped and glanced back. Alger's Farm was only a pale, dim blur in the valley beneath them. Regretfully, he turned his back upon it for the last time. He trudged forward into the cold dark, into a future of unknown gloom.


	13. Friends In Low Places

**Summary :** **We follow our favourite No Home Boy on his journey while on the run. Along the way, they meet up with some unexpected company.**

 _ **A/N : [** **Finally I saw an opening to include our trouble-making duo. Enjoy!]**_

 **THEY HAD WALKED** for miles and miles, how many, Steven could not say. He nodded groggily as he walked, his consciousness shifting in and out of reality. He stumbled over unseen stones and holes in the road. More than anything now, he wanted to sleep. His eyes burned, his legs trembled on the edge of exhaustion.

At the top of another hill- for there was no shortage of notoriously steep hills in back country Delmarvia - Mister Wolf stopped and looked about, his eyes searching the oppressive gloom.

"We take a detour from the road here," Wolf announced.

"Is that wise?" Bismuth asked. "The forest hereabouts are reputed to be thick and heavy, with unsavoury types lurking about, waiting to pounce on travellers such as ourselves. Even if there weren't, will we not be likely to lose our way in the dark?"

With that, Bismuth looked up at the murky night sky. "There isn't even a moon to light our path this night." He finished.

"I don't think we need to be afraid of robbers," Wolf said confidently as he went, "And I'm just as glad that there isn't a moon. We're not being followed yet, but it's just as well that no one be able to see our passage. Isyaki gold can buy many secrets."

And with that, he led them into the fields that lay beside the road.

For Steven, the fields were impossible. If he had stumbled back then on the road, the unseen furrow, clumps and holes in the rough ground now seemed to catch his feet with every step. At the end of the mile, when they had reached the black edge of the forest, Steven was about ready to weep with exhaustion.

"How... Are we possibly... going to find our way in there?" he demanded, peering into the utter gloom of the woods.

"There's a woodcutter's track no far from this side," Wolf said, pointing, "We only have a little ways to go."

And he set off again, treading along the edge of the dark woods, with Steven and the others stumbling along behind him.

"Here we are," he said finally, resting up against a tree to allow them to catch up.

"It's going to be very dark in there, and the track isn't particularly wide. I'll go first, the rest of you follow my lead."

"I'll be right behind you, Steven." Bismuth assured him. "Don't worry, everything will be alright."

There was a note in the smith's words, however, that hinted that the words were more to assure himself rather than the boy.

It seemed warmer in the woods. The tall trees sheltered them somewhat from the gusty chill of the midnight wind. Yet, it was so dark that Steven truly did not know how Wolf could find his way. A dreadful suspicion grew in his mind that Wolf did not actually know where he was going and was merely floundering about blindly, trusting in blind luck to get them through.

"Stop." a rumbling, gravelly voice said suddenly, shockingly, directly ahead of them. Steven's eyes, accustomed slightly now to the gloom of the woods, saw a vague outline of something so huge it could not have possibly been human.

"A **giant! "** His mind screamed in alarm. Then, because he was exhausted and because everything that had transpired that evening had simply piled too much upon his worn out psyche, his nerve broke and he bolted into the trees.

"Steven!" he heard Aunt Pearl's panicked voice cry out from somewhere behind him. "Come back!"

But panic had seized him. He ran on, falling over roots and branches, crashing into trees and getting his legs all tangled up in brambles on the forest floor. It seemed like some endless wooded nightmare. He ran full tilt into a low-hanging branch, and suddenly sparks filled his vision from the sudden blow to his forehead. He lay there for a moment in the cold and damp, gasping and sobbing, trying to clear his head.

Then he felt hands upon him, horrid, unseen grabby hands. A thousand terrors flashed through his mind at once, and he struggled desperately, trying to draw his dagger.

"Oh, no," said a sultry, husky voice. "That's quite enough from you, my little rabbit."

His dagger was taken from him.

"Are you going to eat me?" Steven blubbered.

Somewhere above him, there was a short pause, then his captor laughed. A low, hearty sound.

"On your feet now, rabbit." he said, and Steven felt himself being hauled upwards by a firm, strong hand. His arm was taken in an iron grip, and he was half-dragged through the woods.

* * *

Somewhere ahead there was a light, a winking campfire in the distance, and it seemed that he was being taken there. He knew that he had to think, had to devise some means of escape, but his mind, stunned by fright and paralysed by exhaustion, refused to think. He cursed the dry voice in his head for leaving him at this time.

There were three wagons sitting in a rough half-circle around the fire. Bismuth was there, and Wolf, and Aunt Pearl, and a man so large that Steven's mind refused to accept the possibility that he was real. His tree-trunk legs were wrapped in furs cross-tied with leather straps, and he wore a chain-mail shirt that seemed way too tight for him, accentuating his chiselled chest. From his either side of his belt hung two bull-whips that were curled and tightly bound at the waist. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and seemed to go on forever.

As they came into the light, Steven was able to see the man who had captured him, and was surprised to find that he was no man at all.

 **He was a she!?**

Yes, indeed, she was a small individual, he found, not much taller than Steven himself, and her face was covered by a short hood that made her platinum blonde hair look like an onion bulb. Her eyes were round and her eyelashes long, but seemed small due to the half-lidded expression she wore. It made her look perpetually bored and unimpressed. Her stained and patched tunic was cut short at her waist, revealing a finely toned midriff, and there at the side of her waist was a short, wicked-looking sword.

"Here's our rabbit," the small, weasel-like lady announced as she pulled Steven into the centre of the circle. "And a merry chase he led me on, too."

Aunt Pearl was furious. "Don't you ever do that again," she said sternly, pulling him close.

"Don't encourage him not to run, Mistress Pearl," chided Wolf gently. "It's all the better for him that he runs rather than fights right now. Until he gets bigger, his feet are his best friends."

"Have we been captured by robbers?" Steven asked timidly.

Steven stared directly at the hulking giant as he said those words, his mind registering some anomalies with the man's form, such as the fact that his skin glowed.. purple? In the firelight, but he was too scared to care.

"Robbers?" Wolf laughed. "What a thing to say Steven. These here ladies are our friends."

"Friends?" Steven began doubtfully. "Wait, ladies?" Steven stared straight into the eyes of the huge man.

"Yeah. So I am one. You got something to say about that little man?" began the giant, threateningly.

Steven, put on the spot, was going to say something to try to defend himself, when Aunt Pearl spoke up.

"Amethyst, if you don't stop that right now, I'm going to be **very** cross with you."

At those words, the huge man's shoulders drooped, and when next he spoke, the booming, gravelly quality of his voice all but left him. What came out next was far more fitting to that tonality of a woman.

"Awwww, you're no fun anymore, P." she said sourly.

Steven watched in awe as the giant began to glow, brighter and brighter until it seemed that the light he gave off could illuminate the entire forest around them. Shielding his eyes, he saw a distinct purple gem in the centre of her light-warped form, and as the light dimmed, what sat before him seemed a lot more believable to his beleaguered mind.

She was much shorter now, and her skin was definitely some distinct shade of purple. Her hair hadn't changed, it was still incredibly long, but seemed to flow and merge into the forest floor as she stood. She was a stocky, stout fellow, almost as tall as Onion Girl, and her chainmail shirt fit nicely around her now. The bullwhips were gone, however, replaced by several short throwing knives and a broadsword.

She must have noticed Steven staring at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, because she guffawed loudly.

"Oh my stars, look at his face. AHAHAHAH," she laughed, hardly containing herself as her voice echoed through the trees, "They always shit themselves when they see us, don't they V?"

At the mention of her name, 'V' looked sourly at her boisterous companion.

"This is Steven," Wolf said, pointing at the boy. "You've already met Mistress Pearl, well, one of you anyway." His voice seemed to stress Aunt Pearl's name. "And this is Bismuth, a brave smith who has decided to accompany us."

"Mistress... Pearl, you say?" asked V curiously, then for seemingly no reason at all, she began to laugh.

"I am known by that name, yes." Aunt Pearl replied pointedly.

"It shall be my pleasure to refer to you as such, my great lady," the small woman said with a mocking bow.

"This ball of mischief here is Amethyst," Wolf went on. "She's useful in a pinch, especially when there's trouble. As you can see, she's not from around here. She isn't Delmarvian, but a gem from Van Sangria."

Steven had never seen a gem before, let alone one from mainland Wy-Atia, but he had heard of the unmatched ferocity with which Quartz soldiers had fought and their fearsome prowess in battle, though Amethyst's short stature now did little to bolster Steven's faith in those stories.

"And I," the small lady said with one hand upon her chest, "am called V. Not much of a name, I'll admit, it's only a letter after all, but it's the one I prefer to be called by. I am a juggler and an acrobat by trade." she finished.

"Also master thief, and spy," Amethyst continued good-naturedly.

"We all have our failings, Amy." V admitted blandly, scratching at her bulbous hair under her hood.

"And I'm called Mister Wolf in this particular time and place," the old man said. "I'm rather fond of the name since Shtu-roll over there was the one that gave it to me. Hence you will all refer to me as such."

"Mister... Wolf?" V asked, and then she laughed again. "What a merry name for you, old friend."

"I'm delighted that you find it so, my friend." Wolf replied flatly.

"Mister Wolf it shall be, then," V said. "Come to the fire, friends. Warm yourselves. I'll see to some food for our bellies."

Steven was still uncertain about the inclusion of this odd duo into their little group. They **obviously** knew Aunt Pearl and Mister Wolf- and just as obviously by different names. The fact that Aunt Pearl might not be whom he had always thought she was was profoundly disturbing to him. One of the cornerstones he had built his entire life around had virtually disappeared.

* * *

The food with which V returned with was rough, a mushroom stew with onions and chunks of meat floating in it with crudely hacked off slices of bread on the side. Steven however, fell into it as if he had not eaten for days. He was surprised at the size of his appetite.

And then, his stomach full and his feet warmed by the crackling fire, he rested, leaning against the log in a half-doze.

"What now, Old Wolf?" he heard Aunt Pearl ask. "What's the grand idea behind these clumsy wagons?"

"It's a brilliant plan," Wolf said, "if I do say so myself. There are, as you know, wagons going every which way in Delmarvia at this time of year. Harvests are moving from field to farm, from farm to village and from village to town. Nothing is more unremarkable in Delmarvia than wagons. They're so common they're almost invisible. This is how we're going to travel. We're freight haulers now."

"We're what?" Aunt Pearl demanded.

"Wagoneers," Wolf said. "Hard-working transporters of the goods of Delmarvia. Out to make our fortunes and seek adventure, bitten by the desire to travel, infected by the wanderlust of the road."

"Have you any idea how long it takes to travel by wagon?" Aunt Pearl asked

"Six on a bad day, ten leagues on a good one," he replied. "It's a slow pace, I grant, but it's better to move slowly than to attract attention."

She shook her head in disgust.

"Where first, Mister Wolf?" asked V.

"To Wollock," Wolf announced. "If the one we're following went north, he'll have to have passed through Wollock on his way to Wal'kofte and beyond."

"And what exactly are we carrying to Wollock?" Aunt Pearl asked.

"Onions, great lady," replied V slyly. "Last morning, my trusty partner and I procured three wagonloads of them in the village of Winar."

"This is our plan? Onions?" she said in a tone that spoke volumes.

"Yes, great lady. Onions." V reasserted solemnly.

"Are we ready then?" Wolf asked.

"We are," said Amethyst, shapeshifting back into her giant, hulking form again, her mail shirt crying out in protest against the sudden musculature.

"We should look the part," Wolf said thoughtfully, eyeing Amethyst up and down. "Your armor, my friend, is not the sort of garb a wagoneer would wear. I think you should switch it up for wool."

Amy's face took on an injured expression. "I could wear a tunic over it," she tried to bargain.

"You rattle like a bell every time you move, Amy," V pointed out, "And your armor has a distinct fragrance to it. I didn't want to tell you this way but, you smell like rusty ironworks when I'm downwind of you, Aimes."

Amethyst turned to glare at her companion, obviously hurt at her betrayal. "I feel naked without this chainmail shirt," Amethyst complained.

"We all make sacrifices, Aimes." V shrugged.

Grumbling, Amethyst walked over to the clothing wagon and tossed her mail shirt aside.

"I'd change tunics as well!" she heard V call out. "Your shirt smells as bad as the armor!"

Amethyst glared daggers at her. "Anything else?" she demanded. "I hope you're not planning to have me strip entirely for you here."

V laughed merrily.

Amethyst shed her tunic as well. In her current form, her chest was lush with matted hair covering most of it, so much so it looked almost like fur.

"Maybe you should keep it that way, Amy," said V, strutting up to her. "You look like a rug." she commented, both staring at her in the mirror.

"Hey, that better be a compliment," Amethyst said, sounding injured.

"The winters in Q'zarnia are just as cold as they are here." V continued. "Are you sure your mother didn't dally with a bear or some mountain lion on one of those long winters?"

Amethyst stifled a laugh. "One of these days, that tongue of yours is going to get you in soooooo much trouble, V." she said ominously.

"Trouble and I are close bedfellows, Aimes," purred V as she admired Amethyst in the mirror. "Just like w-"

"I think that all of this can be best discussed later, don't you?" Wolf's voice rang out as he approached the wagon, cutting her off. "I'd much like to be well away from here before week's end."

"Of course, old friend," V said, walking slowly away. "Amy and I can amuse each other later."

 _ **A/N : [** **Well here they are at last!**_

 _ **I'm keeping Amy as a gem in this AU, and if you're wondering why she's wearing clothes instead of shapeshifting them on, it's because shapeshifting clothes means they're still a part of her hard-light form, so tearing at the clothes would still hurt her, whereas stabbing into the chain mail that she wears will affect the integrity of the mail, but not her projected form.**_

 _ **See you next chapter where they'll be on the road out of Delmarvia**_ _ **once and for all :) ]**_


	14. The Journey North

**Summary :** **The merry band heads off to Wollock in search of their quarry. Steven learns some things he never knew about his loved ones.**

 **THREE TEAMS** of sturdy horses were picketed nearby, and they all helped to harness them to the wagons.

"I'll put the fire out," V said and fetched two pails of water from a small creek that trickled nearby. The fire hissed when it met the water, and great clouds of steam boiled up toward the low-hanging tree limbs.

"We'll lead the horses to the edge of the woods," Wolf began. "I'd rather not saddle up now and catch my teeth on a branch."

The horses seemed almost eager to start and moved without needing prodding along a narrow track through the dark forest. They stopped at the edge of the open fields, and Wolf looked about carefully to check if anyone was in sight.

"The coast seems clear," he said. "Let's get moving."

"Hey," Amethyst called out. "Good friend, smith."

"It's Bismuth."

"Right," said Amy. "Come ride with me. I'll bet a conversation between honest men is much preferable to a night spent enduring the insults of an over-clever Q'zarnian."

Amethyst finished that sentence blowing a raspberry at V.

If V noticed the gesture, she seemed not to care.

"As it please you, friend Amethyst," Bismuth politely replied.

"Please, just call me Amy," said Amy with a smile.

"I'll lead," V spoke suddenly as she went over to the front. "I'm familiar with the back roads and lanes in this part of the country. I'll put us on the high road beyond Upper Geralt before noon. Bismuth and Amethyst can bring up the rear. I'm sure between them they can discourage anyone who might feel like tailing us."

"All right," Wolf agreed.

He clambered up onto the seat of the middle wagon, reaching down his hand to assist Aunt Pearl's ascent.

Steven quickly climbed up onto the wagon bed behind them both, nervous that someone might suggest that he ride alongside V. It was all very well for Mister Wolf to say that the two they had just met were friends, but the fright he had just suffered in the wood was far too fresh in his mind to make him anywhere close to comfortable with them.

The sacks of musty-smelling onions were lumpy, but Steven soon managed to push and shove a kind of half-reclining seat for himself among them just behind Aunt Pearl and Mister Wolf. He was sheltered from the wind, Aunt Pearl was close, and his cloak, spread over him, kept him warm. He was altogether comfortable, despite the night's events and he soon drifted into a half-drowse. The dry voice in his mind suggested briefly that he hadn't handled the situation back in the woods very well, but soon it too fell silent, and Steven slept.

He wasn't sure how many hours had passed when next he woke, but he was glad that his feet, now sore from the events of the night before, did not have to be called upon to do any further walking that day. Stretching, he readjusted himself upon the onion sacks to try to find a more comfortable position to doze, though between the bumping of the rickety wagon along the cobblestones and the chatter of people outside, it soon became clear that sleep wasn't going to be an option.

"What if he hasn't passed through Wollock?" Aunt Pearl asked Wolf in a low tone.

It occurred to Steven that in all that excitement, he never actually found out what exactly it was they were seeking. So he kept his eyes closed under the pretense of sleep and listened.

"Don't start with 'what ifs'," said Wolf irritably. "If we sit around saying 'what if', we'll never accomplish anything."

"I was only asking," Aunt Pearl replied sourly.

"If he hasn't gone through Wollock, we'll turn south- to Mavros. He may have joined a caravan there to take the Great North Road to Wal'kofte."

"And if he hasn't gone to Mavros?"

"Then we go to Canaar."

"And then?"

"We'll see when we get to Canaar." His tone was final, as if he didn't want to discuss the matter further.

Aunt Pearl drew in a breath as though she wanted to deliver some final retort, but apparently decided against it and settled back on the wagon seat.

* * *

To the east ahead of them, the faint light of dawn touched the hovering clouds that crested over the mountain peaks, and they moved on through the tattered, windswept end of the long night in search for something which, though he could not even identify it, was so important that Steven's entire life had been uprooted in a single day.

It took them four days to reach Wollock at their pace, a time for which Steven's feet were very grateful. The first day went quite well, since, though it was cloudy and the wind kept blowing, the air was dry and the roads were good. They passed quiet farmsteads and an occasional farmer bent to his labour in the middle of a field. Inevitably, each man stopped his work to watch them pass. Some waved, but some did not.

And then there were villages, clusters of tall houses nestled in valleys. As they passed, children came out and ran after the wagons, shouting and tumbling over themselves with excitement. The villagers watched, in idle curiosity, until they realised that the wagons were not going to stop, and then they sniffed and went about their business.

As the afternoon of that first day lowered toward evening, V led them into a grove of trees at the roadside, and they made preparations for the night. They ate the last of the ham and cheese Wolf had filched from Alger's pantry and then spread their blankets on the ground beneath the wagons. The ground was hard and cold, but the sense of being on some grand adventure tided Steven through the discomfort of it all.

The next morning, however, it began to rain. It started out fine and misty, the kind Steven would run about in delight as a child, but as the morning wore on, it settled into a steady drizzle. It didn't really bother Steven, except for the fact that the damp weather accentuated the musty smell of the onion sacks to unbearable heights. He huddled miserably between them, cloak pulled tight around him.

This adventure was rapidly losing it's allure.

The road became muddied and slick, and the horses struggled for every inch they gained up each hill and had to be rested often. On the first day, they had covered the better part of nine leagues. After the rain however, they were lucky to make five.

To the ire of all involved, Aunt Pearl's demeanour soured with the weather, and she became more waspish and short-tempered as time wore on.

"This is idiocy." she snapped at Wolf about noon on the third day.

"Everything is idiocy if you choose to look at it in the proper light," he replied wistfully, knowing full well the reaction it would elicit.

"Why wagoneers?" she demanded. "There are faster ways to travel- a wealthy family in a proper carriage, for instance, or Imperial messengers on good horses. Either one would have us in Wollock by now."

"And left a trail in the memories of all these simple people we've passed so wide, even a Drakan could follow it," Wolf explained patiently. "By now, Myr would have long since reported our departure to his employers. Every Isyaki in Delmarvia will be looking for us by now."

"Why are we hiding from the Isyaki, Mister Wolf?" Steven asked suddenly, hesitant to interrupt, but impelled by curiosity to try to penetrate the mystery behind their flight. "Aren't they just merchants, like the Shwareans and the Q'zarnians?"

"The Isyaki have no real interest in trading, Steven," Wolf explained. "Indratu are merchants, but the Isyaki are warriors. The Isyaki pose as merchants for the same reason we're posing as wagoneers- so that they can move about more or less undetected. If you simply assumed that all Isyaki are spies, you wouldn't be too far from the truth."

"Haven't you anything better to do than ask all these questions?" Aunt Pearl asked petulantly.

"Not really," Steven replied without thinking, then realising instantly afterward the mistake he'd made.

"Good," she said. "In the back of Amethyst's wagon you'll find a stack of dirty dishes from this morning's meal. You'll also find a bucket. Fetch the bucket, draw some water from the stream up ahead, then go back to Amethyst's wagon to wash the dishes."

"In **this** weather?" Steven objected.

" **Now,** Steven." she asserted firmly.

Grumbling, he climbed down off the slowly moving wagon.

In the late afternoon of the fourth day they came over a high hilltop and saw below the city of Wollock, and beyond it, a laden grey sea. Steven caught his breath. To his eyes the city seemed massive. It's walls were thick and high, and there were more buildings within those walls than he had ever seen in his entire life.

But it was to the sea that his eyes were drawn. There was a sharp tang to the air. Faint hints of that smell had been coming to him on the wind for the past league or so, but now, inhaling deeply, he breathed in the perfume of the salty sea air for the first time in his life. His spirit soared.

"Finally," Aunt Pearl said.

V had stopped leading the wagon and came walking back. Her hood was pulled back slightly, and the rain ran down in rivulets down her nose to drip from its pointed tip.

"Do we stop here or go on down to the city?" she asked.

"We go to the city," Aunt Pearl said immediately. "Sleeping in a wagon is sooooo **disgusting**. And I'm not going to sleep for another second in one when there are perfectly nice inns nearby."

"Honest wagoneers would seek out an inn," Wolf concurred. "and a warm taproom."

"Yes, my thoughts exactly." Aunt Pearl agreed.

"We have to try to look the part." Wolf shrugged.

And down they went, the horses' hooves slipping and sliding as they braced against the weight of the wagons.

At the city gate, two watchmen in stained tunics and donning rust-speckled helmets came out of the tiny watch-house just inside the gate.

"What's your business here in-" one of them began to ask V as he walked up to her.

V, her face upturned and her eyes wide, pouted her lips and pressed her arms together. This had the rather noticeable effect of compressing her frame and thrusting her chest forward. Up until that point, Steven had maintained a strict avoidance policy when it came to V, but it was at this time that Steven's interest in V was particularly piqued. So too, apparently, was the guard's.

"Oh my good ser, please permit my passage here," she wheedled. "I am Helena Belladonna of Goku, a poor Q'zarnian merchant, hoping to do business in your **wonderful** city."

The man, clearly focused on something else, had trouble coordinating his tongue with his thoughts.

"We, uh, need to see... your uh.. trunk. I mean the **wagons**! Trunk of your wagons, what's... in uh.. them." he practically drooled.

V giggled in response, a pleasant, playful noise, her body shuddering slightly with the sound.

"Of course, dear ser. I implore you to be quick though," she bent slightly toward him as he went, "I'd like to get out of this rain soon."

Steven noticed how the water caught on the front of her tunic, how each droplet it absorbed seemed to reveal more of the figure it hid. Her cloak drawn behind her, she let the rain fall freely onto her, squinting upward at the clouds absently, seemingly oblivious to the effect her damp clothing had on the two watchmen athwart her. He turned away, redfaced, and red-blooded.

He doubted they'd even made a thorough search as the man approached V again just as quickly as he'd left her.

He observed some sort of exchange of coins occur between them, and some parting remarks.

"Such a paltry fee!" gasped V in mock incredulity. "Are you sure this is allowed?" she asked shyly, biting her lip and looking to the other guardsman as though fearing reprisal.

"It's alright, fair maiden, I'm sure of it." the bumbling watchman reassured her. "This'll be our little secret." He winked.

V made to giggle again, returning the gesture with a seductive glint in her eye.

With that, she sashayed away, her flank bouncing with each sultry step. The wagons were moving again.

"Child's play," she remarked as she saddled up back alongside Amethyst.

"Maybe you should do it for a living then," Amethyst remarked.

"Tried. Didn't take." V replied.

Amethyst stared at her for a long while.

"Pfffft-HAHAHAHAH," she laughed boisterously. "Did you actually think-?"

"I mean, I don't know!" Amethyst replied, her purple face stained scarlet. "Girl of your talents..." she murmured under her breath.

"Oh you great big lug," V chided, punching Amethyst playfully in the side. "You know I'm not into that." she said in a half-smile.

Amethyst, her face still beet red, declined to comment further.

* * *

From the hilltop, Wollock looked quite splendid, but Steven found it much less so as they clattered through the wet streets. The buildings all seemed the same with a kind of self-important aloofness about them, and the streets were littered and dirty. The salt tang of the sea which Steven had grown so fond of was tainted by the smell of dead fish, and the faces of the people passing them by was grim and unfriendly. Steven's first excitement began to fade.

"Why are all the people here so unhappy?" he asked Mister Wolf.

"They have a stern and demanding God." Wolf replied.

"Which God is that?" Steven asked.

"Money," Wolf said. "Money is a worse God than Black Diamond herself."

"Don't fill the boy's head with nonsense," Aunt Pearl said. "The people aren't really unhappy Steven, they're just all in a hurry. They have important affairs to attend to and they're afraid they'll all be late, that's all."

"I don't think I'd like to live here," Steven concluded. "It seems like a bleak and unfriendly kind of place." He sighed. "Sometimes I wish we were all back at Alger's Farm."

"There are worse places than Alger's, " Wolf agreed.

The inn V chose for them was near the docks, and Steven wondered if it was because she knew he liked the smell of the sea. The inn was a stout, sturdy thing, with stables attached and storage sheds for their wagons. Like most inns, the main floor was given over to the kitchen and the large common room with its rows of tables and large fireplaces. The upper floors had sleeping quarters for the guests.

"It's a serviceable spot," V announced as she came back out the wagons after speaking at some length with the innkeeper. "The kitchen seems clean, and I saw no bugs when I inspected our beds."

"I will be the judge of that," said Aunt Pearl as she climbed down from the wagons.

"As you wish, great lady." said V with a polite bow.

Aunt Pearl's inspection took far longer than V's, and when she returned it was nearly dark in the courtyard.

"Adequate," she sniffed, "but only barely."

"It's not as if we're planning to settle in for the winter, Pearl," Wolf said. "At most we'll only be here for a few days."

She ignored that.

"I've ordered hot water to be sent up to our chambers." she announced. "I'll take the boy up and wash him while you and the others see to the wagons and horses. Come along now, Steven." And she turned and went back into the inn.

Steven wished fervently that everyone would stop referring to him as the boy. He did, after all, he reflected, have a name, and it was not all that difficult to remember. He was gloomily convinced that even if he lived to have a long grey beard, they would still speak of him as the boy.

After the horses and wagons had been attended to and they had all washed up, they went down again to the common room and dined. The meal certainly didn't match Aunt Pearl's, but it was definitely a step up from onion stew. Steven absolutely abhorred onions at this point, and was quite certain he'd never be able to look at one again for the rest of his life.

After they had eaten, the grown-ups loitered over their ale pots, and Aunt Pearl's face crinkled in disapproval.

"Steven and I are going up to bed now," she said to them. "Try not to fall down too many times on your way up."

Wolf, Amethyst and V all laughed at that, but Bismuth, Steven thought, seemed a tad ashamed.

* * *

The next day, Mister Wolf and V left the inn early and were gone all day. Steven had positioned himself in a strategic spot in hopes he might be noticed and asked to go along; but alas, he was not; so when Bismuth went down to look after the horses, he accompanied him instead.

"Bismuth," he said after they had fed and watered the animals and the smith was examining their hooves for cuts or stone bruises, "does all this seem strange to you?"

Bismuth carefully lowered the leg of the patient horse he was inspecting. "All what, Steven?" he asked, his plain face sober.

"Everything," Steven said rather vaguely. "This journey, Amethyst and V, Mister Wolf and Aunt Pearl- all of it. They all talk sometimes when they don't think I can hear them. This all seems terribly important, but I can't tell if we're running away from someone or towards them."

"It's all confusing to me as well, Steven," Bismuth admitted. "Many things aren't what they seem-not what they seem at all."

"Does Aunt Pearl seem different to you?" Steven asked. "What I mean is, they all treat her as if she were a noblewoman or something, and she acts differently too, now that we're not on Alger's Farm."

"Mistress Pearl is a great lady," Bismuth stated. "I've always known that." His voice had that same respectful tone when he spoke of her, and Steven instinctively knew that it was useless to try to coax any admission about her unusual behaviour out of him.

"What about Mister Wolf?" Steven asked, switching tracks. "I always thought he was just some old storyteller."

"He doesn't seem like an ordinary vagabond," Bismuth admitted. "I think we've fallen in with some very important people, Steven, on important business. It's probably better that simple folk like us not ask too many questions, but rather to keep our eyes and ears open."

"Will you be going back to Alger's Farm when this is all over?" Steven inquired, choosing his words carefully.

Bismuth considered that, his gaze distant over the rain-swept courtyard of the inn. "No," he said finally in a soft voice. "I'll follow as long as Mistress Pearl allows me to."

On an impulse, Steven reached out and patted the gentle smith's shoulder. "Everything's going to turn out alright, Bismuth."

Bismuth sighed. "Let's hope so," he said and turned his attention back to the horses.

"Bismuth," Steven asked, "did you know my parents?"

"No," Bismuth said. "The first time I saw you, you were a baby in Mistress Pearl's arms."

"What was she like then?"

"She seemed angry." Bismuth began. "Angry and bitter and fierce. I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite so angry as the day I saw her with you. She talked with Alger for a while and then went to work in the kitchen- you know Alger. He never turned away anyone in his whole life. At first she was just a helper, but that didn't last too long. Our old cook was getting fat and lazy, and eventually she went off to live with her youngest daughter. After that, Mistress Pearl ran the kitchen."

"She was a lot younger then, wasn't she?" Steven pressed.

"Nope," Bismuth said thoughtfully. "Mistress Pearl never changes. She looks exactly the same now as she did back then."

"I'm sure it only seems that way," Steven said. "Everybody gets older."

Bismuth chuckled. "Not Mistress Pearl."


	15. Two Can Play

**Summary :** **V has work to do before they leave for Mavros, and Steven tags along.**

 _ **A / N: [** **I should note here that the Vidalia I'm imagining is the younger version, not the Mother Onion incarnation of Viddy, obviously.]**_

 **THAT EVENING** Wolf and his sharp-nosed friend returned, their faces sombre.

"Nothing," Wolf announced shortly, scratching at his snowy beard.

"I might have told you that," Aunt Pearl sniffed. "Saved you the trouble."

Wolf shot her an irritated look, then shrugged. "We had to be certain."

The lush-chested giant, Amethyst, looked up from the mail shirt she was polishing.

"No trace at all?" she asked, her booming gravelly voice back on display.

"Not a hint," Wolf said. "He hasn't gone through here."

"So where else could he be?" Amy asked, putting away her chainmail shirt.

"Mavros," Wolf said.

Amethyst rose and went to the window. "The rain is slackening," she observed. "But the roads are going to be difficult."

"We won't be able to leave tomorrow anyway," V said, lounging on a stool near the door. "I have to dispose of our onions. If we're seen carrying them out of Wollock it may seem suspicious, and we don't want to be remembered by anyone who may have the chance to speak with a wondering Isyaki."

"I suppose you're right," Wolf conceded. "I hate to lose the time, but there's no help for it."

"The roads will be better after a day's drying," V offered. "And wagons travel faster empty."

"Are you sure you can sell, them, friend V?" Bismuth asked.

"I'm a Q'zarnian," she replied confidently. "I can sell anything. We might even make good profit."

"Don't worry about that," Wolf said. "The onions have served their purpose. All we need to do now is to get rid of them."

"It's a matter of principle," said V airily. "Besides, if I don't try to strike a hard bargain, that too will be remembered. Don't be concerned. The business won't take long and it won't tarry us."

"Could I go along with you, V?" asked Steven suddenly. "I haven't seen any other part of Wollock except for this inn."

V paused to look inquiringly at Aunt Pearl.

Aunt Pearl returned her gaze evenly, apparently considering her unspoken petition.

"I suppose it won't do him any harm," she conceded. "And it'll give me the time to attend to some matters of my own."

* * *

The next morning after breakfast, V and Steven set out, with Steven lugging a bag of onions over his shoulder. The diminutive lady seemed to be in extraordinarily good spirits, and her sharp pointed nose seemed to almost quiver.

"The whole point," she chittered as they tittered along the littered, cobblestone streets, "is not to appear too eager to sell- and to know the market of course."

"That sounds reasonable," Steven replied politely, marveling at how quickly her demeanour had changed in the short time he had known her.

"Yesterday I made a few inquiries," V went on. "Onions are selling on the docks of Goku in Q'zarnia for a Q'zarnian silver coin per hundredweight."

"A what?"

"It's a Q'zaran coin," V explained. "about the same as a silver Imperial- not quite, but close enough. The merchant will try to bargain for our onions for no more than a quarter of that, but he'll be willing to go as high as half."

"How do you know that?"

"It's customary."

"How many onions do we have?" Steven asked, sidestepping a pile of dog shit in the street.

"We have," V pondered. "About thirty hundredweight."

"That would be-" Steven began, his face contorting while running the complex calculation in his head.

"Fifteen imperials," V supplied. "Or three gold crowns."

"Gold?" Steven asked. Because gold was so rare in country dealings, the word seemed to have an almost magic quality.

V nodded. "It's always preferable," she said. "It's so much easier to carry. The weight of all that silver's quite a burden."

"And how much did we pay for the onions?" Steven asked.

"Five silver," V replied.

"The farmer gets five, we get fifteen, and the merchant gets thirty?" Steven asked, incredulous and disgusted by the unfairness of it all. "That hardly seems fair."

V simply shrugged. "It's the way things are," she said flatly.

"There's the merchant's house." V pointed at a rather imposing building with broad steps.

"When we go in, he'll pretend to be very busy and not at all interested in us. Later, while he and I are bargaining, he'll notice you and tell you what a splendid boy you are."

"Me?" Steven asked, wondering what he had to do with anything.

"He'll think that you're some relation of mine- a son or a nephew perhaps- and he'll think to gain an advantage over me by flattering you."

"What a strange notion," Steven said.

"I'll tell him many things," V went on, chirping very rapidly now. Her eyes seemed to glitter, and her nose was actually twitching.

"Don't pay any attention to what I actually say," she said. "And don't let any surprise show on your face. He'll be watching us both very closely."

"You're going to lie?" Steven asked.

"It's expected," V replied. "The merchant will also lie. The one of us who lies the best will get the better bargain."

"It's all so terribly involved," Steven said.

"It's a game, Steven!" V said in a merry voice, a grin plastered across her features. "A very exciting game that's played all over the world! Good players get rich and bad players don't."

"Are you a good player?" Steven asked.

"One of the best," V replied modestly. "Let's go in."

* * *

The merchant wore an unbelted fur-trimmed gown of a pale green colour with orange highlights and a close fitting cap. Steven realised it was almost exactly of the same cut as that other spice merchant in Upper Geralt. He wondered if all merchants looked the same.

He behaved as much as V predicted he would, sitting before a plain table and leafing through many scraps of parchment with a busy frown on his face while V and Steven waited for him to notice them.

"Very well then," he said finally. "Do you have business with me?"

"We have some onions," V said somewhat deprecatingly.

"That's truly unfortunate, friend," the merchant said, assuming a long face. "The wharves at Goku groan with onions just now. It would hardly pay me to take them off your hands at any price."

V shrugged. "Then perhaps I'll try the Wy-Atians or the Ainur then," she replied. "Their markets may not yet be so glutted as yours," She turned. "Come along, boy," she said to Steven.

Steven made to follow, when suddenly the merchant's voice called out from behind them.

"A moment, good friend," the merchant began. V did well to hide the smile on her face as she turned. "I detect from your speech that you and I are countrymen. Perhaps as a favour I'll look at your onions."

"Your time is valuable," V offered courteously. "If you aren't in the market for onions, why should we trouble you further?"

"I might yet be able to find a buyer somewhere," the merchant protested, changing his tune now. "If the merchandise is of a good quality." He took the bag from Steven and opened it.

Steven listened in utter fascination as V and the merchant fenced politely with each other, each attempting to gain the advantage.

"What a splendid boy this is," said the merchant, suddenly seeming to notice Steven's presence for the first time.

"An orphan," V replied. "Placed in my care. I'm attempting to teach him the rudiments of business, but he's slow to learn."

"Ah," the merchant conceded, sounding slightly disappointed.

Then V made a curious gesture with the fingers of her right hand.

The merchant's eyes widened slightly, then he too returned with a gesture of his own.

After that, Steven had absolutely no clue of what was going on. The hands of V and the merchant wove intricate designs in the air, sometimes flickering so rapidly that the eye could scarcely follow them. V's fingers, long, slender and ladylike, danced intensely, and the merchant's eyes were fixed upon them, his forehead breaking into a sweat at the intensity of his concentration.

"Done, then?" V said finally, breaking the long silence in the room.

"Done," the merchant agreed somewhat ruefully.

"It's always a pleasure doing business with an honest man," V smirked.

"I've learned much today," the merchant said. "I hope you don't intend to remain in this business for long, friend. If you do, I might just as well give you the keys to my warehouse and strongroom right now and save myself the anguish I'll experience every time you appear."

V laughed merrily. "You've been a worthy opponent, friend merchant." She smiled sincerely.

"I thought so at first," the merchant replied, scratching his head. "but, I'm no match for the likes of you. Deliver your onions to my warehouse on Bedok wharf tomorrow morning." He said, scribbling a few lines on a piece of parchment with a quill. "My overseer will pay you."

V bowed and received the parchment. "Come along now, boy." she said to Steven, and led the way from the room.

* * *

"What was that?" Steven asked in confusion when they were out on the blustery street.

"We got the price I wanteeeeed," V sang smugly in a half-hum, obviously pleased with herself.

"But you didn't say anything!" Steven objected.

"We spoke at great length, Steven." V said. "Weren't you watching?"

"All I saw was the two of you waggling fingers at each other."

"That's how we spoke," V explained. "It's a separate language devised thousands of years ago by my people. It's called the secret language, and it's much faster than the spoken one. It permits us to speak in the presence of strangers without being overheard. An adept can conduct business while discussing the weather, if he so chooses."

"Will you teach it to me?" Steven asked, utterly fascinated.

"It takes a long time to learn it, Steven." V told him.

"Isn't the trip from here to Mavros going to take a long time?" Steven suggested.

V shrugged. "As you wish," she said. "It won't be easy, but it'll help pass the time I suppose."

"Are we going back to the inn now?" Steven asked.

"Mmmmmm, nope. We'll still need a cargo to explain our entry into Mavros."

"I thought we were going to leave with the wagons empty?"

"We are."

"But you just said-"

"We'll see a merchant I know," V explained patiently. "He buys farm goods all over Delmarvia and has them held on the farms until the markets are right in Flax and Shwarea. Then he arranges to have them freighted either to Mavros or Canaar."

"It sounds very complicated," Steven said doubtfully.

"It's not really," V assured him. "Come along, my dear, you'll see."

* * *

The next merchant was a Shwarean who wore a flowy blue robe and a disdainful expression on his face. He was talking with a grim-faced Isyaki as V and Steven entered his counting room. The Isyaki, like all of his race Steven had ever seen, had deep scars on his face, and his black eyes were penetrating.

V touched Steven's shoulder with a cautionary hand when they entered and saw the Isyaki, her expression darkening considerably. Then she stepped forward.

"Forgive me, noble merchant," she said ingratiatingly. "I didn't know you were occupied. My porter and I will wait outside until you have time for us."

"My friend and I will be busy for most of the day," the Shwarean said. "Is it something important?"

"I was simply wondering if you had cargo for me," V replied.

"No," the Shwar said curtly. "Nothing." He made to turn back to the Isyaki, then paused, and turned sharply to regard her.

"Wait, aren't you Helena of Goku?" he asked. "I thought you dealt in spices."

Steven recognised the name as the one V had given the watchmen at the city gates. It was evident that the crafty lady had used the name before.

"Alas," V replied. "My last venture lies at the bottom of the sea just off the hook of Flax. Two full shiploads bound for Tol Harith. A sudden storm, and I'm now a pauper."

"A tragic tale, worthy Helena," the Shwarean master merchant said, almost smugly.

"I'm now reduced to freighting produce," V said morosely. "I have three rickety wagons, and that's all that's left of the empire of Helena of Goku."

"Reverses and windfalls come to us all," the Shwarean said philosophically.

"So this is the famous Helena of Goku," the Isyaki said, his harshly accented voice quite soft. He looked V up and down, his black eyes probing. "It was a fortunate chance that brought me out today. I am enriched by meeting so illustrious and lovely a lady. Your reputation precedes you, my dear."

V curtsied politely. "You're too kind, noble ser," she said.

"I am Rohk-Nal-Do of Fisyak," the Isyaki introduced himself. He turned to the Shwarean merchant. "We can put aside our discussion for a bit, Morgan," he said. "We will accrue much honor by assisting so great a merchant to begin recouping her losses."

"You're too kind, worthy Nal-Do," V said, curtsying again.

Steven's mind was shrieking all sorts of warnings, but the Isyaki's sharp eyes made it impossible for him to make the slightest gesture to V. He kept his face impassive and his eyes dull even as his thoughts raced.

"I would gladly help you my friend," Morgan said, "But I have no cargo in Wollock at the moment."

"I'm already committed from Wollock to Muralia," V said quickly. "Three wagonloads of Wy-Atian iron. And I also have a contract to move furs from Mavros to Canaar. It's the fifty leagues from Muralia to Mavros that concerns me. Wagons traveling empty earn no profit."

"Muralia," Morgan frowned. "Let me examine my records. It seems to me that I do have something there."

He stepped out of the room, leaving Rohk, V and Steven alone.

"Your exploits are legendary in the kingdoms of the east, Helena," said Nal-Do admiringly. "When last I left Sivu-Isyak, there was still a kingly price on your head."

V laughed easily. "A minor misunderstanding, Rohk," she said. "I was merely investigating the extent of Shwarean intelligence gathering activities in your kingdom. I took some chances I probably shouldn't have, and the Shwar found out what I was up to. The charges they leveled at me were fabrications."

"How did you manage to escape?" asked Rohk in quiet wonder. "The soldiers of King Mal Shyeikman nearly dismantled the kingdom searching for you."

"I chanced to meet a Drakan gentleman of high station," V said. "I managed to prevail upon him to smuggle me out of the country."

"Ah," said Rohk, smiling briefly. "Drakan men are so notoriously easy to prevail upon."

"But so demanding," V agreed, feigning fatigue at the memory of it. "They expect full repayment for their favours, **and then some**. I found it more difficult to escape his clutches than I did from Sivu-Isyak."

"Do you still perform such services for your government?" asked Rohk casually.

"They won't even talk to me," V said gloomily. "Helena the spice merchant is useful to them, but Helena the poor wagoneer is quite another matter altogether."

"Of course," Rohk-Nal-Do said, and his tone indicated that he obviously did not believe what he had been told.

He glanced briefly at Steven without any seeming interest, but when their eyes met, Steven felt a shock of recognition. Without knowing exactly how it was that he knew, he was instantly sure that Rohk-Nal-Do of Fisyak had known him for all of his life. There was a familiarity in that glance, a familiarity that had grown out of the dozen or more times that their eyes had met while Steven was growing up that Rohk, muffled always in a black cloak and astride a black horse, had stopped and watched and then moved on. Steven returned the gaze without expression, and the slightest hint of a smile, malicious and cruel, flashed across Rohk's scarred face.

Morgan returned to the room then.

"I have some hams on a farm near Muralia," he announced. "When do you expect to arrive in Mavros?"

"Fifteen or twenty days," V told him.

Morgan nodded. "I'll give you a contract to move my hams to Mavros," he offered. "Seven silver nobles per wagonload."

"Shwarean nobles or Delmarvian?" asked V quickly.

"This is Delmarvia, noble Helena."

"We're citizens of the world, noble merchant," V said pointedly. "Transactions between us have always been in Shwarean coin."

Morgan sighed. "I'd count my lucky stars to find you on a day where you weren't half so quick. Very well, worthy Helena, Shwarean nobles- because we are old friends, and because my heart bleeds for your misfortunes."

"Perhaps we'll meet again, my lady Helena." Rohk said.

"Perhaps," V said, and she and Steven left the counting room.

* * *

"Cheapskate," V muttered as they reached the street. "The rate should have been ten, not seven."

"What about the Isyaki?" Steven asked. Once again there was the familiar reluctance to refrain from divulging too much information about the strange, unspoken link that had existed between him and the figure that now at least had a name.

V shrugged. "He knows I'm up to something, but he doesn't know exactly what- just as I know he's up to something. I've had dozens of meetings like that. Unless our purposes happen to collide, we won't interfere with each other. Rohk and I are both professionals."

"You're a very strange person, if you don't mind my saying so, V."

V winked at Steven in response, her sly eyes twinkling.

"Why were you and Morgan arguing about the coins?"

"Shwarean coins are a bit purer," V told him. "They're worth more."

"I see," Steven said.

The next morning, they all mounted the wagons again and delivered their onions to the warehouse of the Q'zarnian merchant. Then, their wagons tumbling emptily, they rolled out of Wollock, southward bound.

The rain had ceased, but the morning was overcast and blustery. On the hill outside town, V turned to Steven, who was sitting in the seat beside her.

"Very well," she said. "Let's begin."

She moved her fingers in front of Steven's face. "This means **Good morning"...**

 **A/N: [** _ **Yes, Ronaldo is the villain. I just thought of who in the AU I wanted to kill off first. I don't particularly like Ronaldo, so my gaze settled on him first. Hope y'all don't mind.]**_


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